Sometimes I go slipping and sliding over the rhythm of a day, a week—never finding a cadence, a beat.
Recently my Court Jester has been all about the basketball. He carries it through the house. Bounce. Bounce. Bouncing. The muffled puff, puff, puff as it pounds carpet. The ting, ting, ting as it taps tile.
There’s a rhythm.
And there are days I wonder if I’ll find mine.
Off kilter. Running willy nilly through the hurried days of here and there and everywhere with this kid now and that kid later. No space between the bouncing left to breathe.
Bouncebouncebouncebounce. Puffpuffpuffpuff. Tingtingtingting.
But maybe that’s a rhythm too?
I don’t know that life truly has a singular tempo because for almost forty years, things are ever changing. Instead? Maybe life dances along a symphony of rhythms and notes. A symphony no one’s ever played before where keeping time can be a guessing game. We’re sight reading sheet music before a panel of judges, skipping notes and missing beats.
I hear all these ideas on how people should have balance and rhythm, and I’m sitting here wondering all the time if the “people who should” actually includes me?
Because what if my life of bounce. bounce. bouncing one day becomes bouncebouncebouncebounce the next?
And what if that’s beautiful too?
Is life really supposed to be unhurried and balanced? Slow is different from rest and worship—life-giving necessities. Without doubt there’s a time for the slowing to meander. There is the life that is too busy. But lately I’ve wondered if I yearn for a slow that’s never meant to be.
Because when I slow, when I find myself slipping through more than a few days of nothingness, I can quickly spiral into the dark. Depression always lurks, waiting in the shadows.
If I’m honest with myself, I thrive when my life’s tempo is quick and fast paced.
So my question becomes—What if I learned to dance with the vast and various rhythms of life instead of attempting to control them?
I’m beginning to see life is about doing the things in front of you well—one action at a time. Walking through the slow bounces of the ball. Running when it speeds up. Knowing when to stop ting.ting.tinging the ball on the tile. Giving yourself permission to acknowledge that the beat is ever-changing.
Rhythm would be boring if it played the same beats always and continuous without ever stopping. I think that would be even harder to bear.
My Jesus promises a full, abundant life.
He doesn’t promise slow. He doesn’t promise same. He doesn’t promise easy.
But a full and abundant life of beautiful, varied tempos and symphonies of music and bouncing basketballs?
Those are rhythms I don’t mind slipping and sliding along with.
And there it is.
Life is playing my song.