How to Recognize the Rehearsing of Our Anxieties and Walk A Better Way

I sat at the dining room table reading through lesson plans for the writing class I taught last fall when I saw it. I flipped one sheet over, and on the back, a half page of my own handwriting took me by surprise. The date typed on the front was September 12, 2017, and I discovered it in my files exactly 364 days later. With my curiosity peaked, I wondered what I had written one year prior. What thoughts occupied my mind? I often return to old journals to trace the path of my days over time. Sometimes it’s encouraging and other times, to be honest, it’s a real downer. Remembering how difficult that particular class had been, I prepared to pat myself on the back for any personal growth I’d see in my notes from that morning.

“First Five Minutes” I wrote at the top of the page and then I underlined it.

I begin every class period I teach with five minutes of free writing, in which I ask students to clear their heads of any extraneous thoughts by capturing them on paper. These words are for their eyes only, so nothing is out of bounds –a To-Do list, a hate note, a single repetitive sentence, maybe even a journal entry. Many of them pretend to write while texting one-handed beneath the desk, as if I’ve never seen a teenager with a phone addiction before.

I never write for our first five minutes, as I’m often too busy shaking my insides free of classroom jitters upon realizing, once again, I’m charged with teaching these people. For whatever reason, on September 12, 2017, I found the need to scribble something down.

Three hundred and sixty four days ago, I wrote a few sentences about my children’s easy transition to school that year which, quite frankly, was the exact opposite of how they responded to this new school year. I went so far as to call one of them a “star”. Said “star” is currently punished from now until forever. There shall be no back patting.

I then ventured into familiar territory, writing about my lack of time to devote to my writing. Oh, the irony. I added a few sentences about vocational disappointments I’d experienced at the time, which continue to be significant disappointments today. When every door of opportunity had closed to me, I scrawled eight options I might pursue when the One Thing I wanted most was denied me. I have pursued nothing.

I asked myself a final question, “Where do I go from here?”

It’s the question I’m still asking today. Swallowing hard, I pulled out my daily journal and scanned a few of my morning pages. I’ve written a version of this question in entries nearly every day. Echoes of a years worth of conversations with my husband and mentors and friends filled my ears. Not only had I written these words on repeat, I’d talked about them ad nauseum. My prayer life had taken on the same plaintive tone. And still, I feel distant from concrete answers.

Recently, while reading The Eternal Current by Aaron Niequist, I came across a passage that resonated deeply with my situation. He writes of a time when he prayed and journaled through a season of suffering, “The tear-soaked journal pages were a holy first step. But after a while, returning to this journal didn’t help. In fact, like lifting a bandage to check a wound, my quiet time became a barrier to healing.” He goes on to quote author Ian Michael Cron, who calls this pattern of prayer “rehearsing our anxieties.”

For a year, rather than seeking peace, I’ve been rehearsing my anxieties. On the page, in prayer, and in conversation I have continued to check my wounds rather than allow them to heal.  “Where do I go from here?” sounds like an appropriate question to ask, but it carries a faint whisper of helplessness alongside it. A better question to ask is “What’s next for me?” Where might I take a step towards wholeness in this season of questioning?

I hadn’t realized how this constant rehearsing of anxieties has reshaped my thought patterns into well-worn grooves. This path is familiar, comfortable, and always leads to the same destination. I recognize myself here. Now that I’ve taken a good hard look, I realize this isn’t where I want to be in a year or a month or even next week. I don’t want to keep company with my anxieties on a path leading nowhere.

With time and attentiveness, I trust this path can be re-made. With good questions and quiet discernment, I see a light emerging from a clearing in this forest of questions. I see a way forward through this chapel of trees. Slowly, slowly I walk forward. I hear a different voice calling. This, yes, this is the way.