Dormancy isn't death
Sometimes the work is just slow
I’ve been working on a piece for a few weeks now and I still don’t like it— it’s not ready to be seen, and I’m annoyed. Now that I’ve re-entered full-time work in nursing after a six month hiatus, I am figuring out what my writing time looks as I juggle the erratic hospital schedule, learn a new skillset, and come home with a brain of mush. Yet even when I’m exhausted, my mind still races at night, putting words together mentally whether I mean to or not. I can’t not write, but the work is slow. I’m slow. And I have to be okay with the pace (for now).
Driving to work under the first glimmers of pink highlights along the horizon, watching the pregnant haze come bursting into dawn— these are some of the only things I enjoy about getting up early. I hate mornings, but love sunrises.1 As I was exiting the neighborhood a few weeks ago, passing an open area with empty soccer fields on the right, I noticed some lumpish forms rising out of the grey mist. It was an irregularity in the landscape, and I squinted as I drove, trying to see out what they were. Just as I was racing past I realized that three coyotes were standing out there in the open— not running, not lying down, just… standing. Were they observing the traffic? Guarding territory? Digesting a meal? I craned my neck to look back a few times, curious to see if there was a visible reason that these wanderers were out there in the open, but I saw nothing.
The image stirred me, remaining with me all that day. I always thought of coyotes as loners— roaming scavengers slinking through shadows, stealing discarded trash with skittish desperation. It was so weird to see three of them out in the open, unfazed by the growing daylight. As I approached the field on my way home hours later, I was shocked to see them still out there, still holding some mysterious coyote vigil, still standing, still watching, still waiting. What were they doing? There had to be a reason for this strange behavior, but I googled it and could find no rationale for a daytime coyote convention.2
Years ago, a wise friend once told me that just because a dream or desire is dormant, it doesn’t mean it’s dead. There are seasons when we have to accept responsibility and put something good away. We may think— as I have before— that we are choosing to let a dream die. We may assume that putting a desire to bed means putting it to death, and sometimes that may be totally accurate. Sometimes our longings disappear deep beneath the surface, so far below that we forget they even exist. Sometimes those desires resurface in seasons that surprise us, and we find them fresh, good, and newly possible. Just because something is dormant doesn’t mean it’s dead.
I am experiencing this now with the job I’ve recently started. It’s the thing I’ve wanted to do ever since I began my career in nursing over a decade ago, but for a variety of reasons it was never the right time to switch into a new specialty. Moving, dealing with autoimmune issues, recognizing I could not work night shift, and being in school all demanded that I put the dream away. I wrestled with God, angry that circumstances didn’t seem to line up with my desires, that my body was holding me back, that I had to submit to its’ whims, prioritize my health, and sacrifice my dream. Eventually I let it go, learning to accept the good lot that I had (but didn’t fully want). Over time, I realized the pride in my desire to succeed, and the wisdom of living with embodied limitations. There was goodness in letting the dream go, and truly it was not on my radar that it could ever resurface.
I can’t prescribe this as a formula for anything. I have no explanation my my own stroke of surprising blessedness, just gratitude to God, recognition that even the best of jobs get tough, and that sometimes the process is the point. Maybe there’s a message in here about waiting, about being surprised, about holding out hope, etc. Something about how the coyotes were waiting, about how I was waiting, blah blah blah. But this is really about writing. Yes, the job is good. I’m energized by work in ways I literally could not image a year ago, and I’m grateful to sink my teeth into a specialty that really suits me.3 But in this season of training, my time is being re-allocated, my energy is sapped, the coyote is standing still, and it makes me uncomfortable. The writer is not running, scavenging, and hunting like before, but she is still there— vigilant, alert, and hungry for moments to pound the keys and create something, even if it takes four times as long. I’m writing in the margins, and I’ll keep on doing it, cause I really believe that just because something is dormant, doesn’t mean it’s dead.
Yes, I know they go hand-in-hand.
If you know something about this, please tell me.
YES to reinventing yourself in your thirties.
Rebecca- Thanks for sharing this. You are so on-point with the observation that dormancy is not death. In my younger years I thought the opposite--maybe because the world had sold it to me by way of finite measurements, like amount of income, success metrics, and popularity. But as time passes--dormancy becomes an old friend. It knows when to be quiet when I needed it. And it knows when to wake up, offer a hand, and help me move forward. Most of all, what I appreciate about dormancy is that it's a willing mirror. When thoughts crowd the brain and turn into noise, very few things can clarify and filter everything like stillness in dormancy. And only in dormancy, like a blank canvas, can I see myself, my thoughts, and ideas. Your writing is a wonderful reminder of this. :)