When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.. – Sweet Darkness, David Whyte
To tire of work is to open up to the possibility of a new work.
Your tiredness may come draped in fear. Fear of being found wanting. No longer as passionate or dedicated, engaged and loyal you anticipate that conversation, the one about performance.
So instead you hide your tiredness. Bury your boredom. Work harder and longer in hope you’ll dispel the rumours you might be a little less capable, a little less enthusiastic a little less relevant. The thing is, rarely does anyone notice. They’re all too busy wrestling with their own fears!
You continue, slowed down with tiredness. Inhabiting every cell of your being it follows you everywhere. Travels home, touches loved ones, takes charge of your life. You imagine it gone, to once again feel vital, happy and purposeful. You try a holiday. Shopping. Ice-cream. Chocolate. Alcohol. Anything to have it disappear. And still it stays, begging to be seen.‘Resist me it screams and I only persist.’
To refuse your tiredness is to deny yourself. It is to court smallness in return for safety. In doing so your ego runs rife, over identifying, you become your work. It raises the volume on your not good enough, smart enough or any other not enough story you cling on to.
What if tiredness was your souls way of saying you’re done here. An invitation to honour your lessons, acknowledge your wins and talents with thier worthy work and contribution. And having done so, welcome that you are done here.
Trusting this, your soul invites you to seek new adventures, worthy of your gifts. To find new places of engagement with a new work and tribe to share your talent with. A new to once again apprentice your self to. Work aligned to your souls calling. Work you can fall in love with.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves. – Mary Oliver Wild Geese