This was originally written for and cross-posted over at The Far Country. Thanks to Megan for letting me write about something other than gender.
It was about three years ago the first time a doctor said she didn’t “know what to tell me” about the constant feeling of having a softball in my throat. You know, that feeling you get when you’re anxious about something – which is exactly what it ended up being, only it lasted for two months and brought with it a mental fogginess and physical apathy I couldn’t shake. I started seriously depending on the Book of Psalms then. Â
Three notable times over my 29 years, around huge life events, my body has registered general anxiety in physical ways. I have found some relief only through meditation and Psalms (and some yoga). Now, I’m realizing that no matter how long I meditate or repeat prayers or share with friends, the physical anxiety might be gone for a few weeks or, usually a few years, but it will probably return.
I know that my limited experience with anxiety is nothing like experiencing it intensely, on and off throughout one’s whole life. But I do know what it’s like to fear that the lump will never leave my throat. I understand the panic that comes from experiencing one day of relief only to feel it slip away. I feel the bitter joy of reading about “the pit” in Psalm 40 for the hundredth time, and finally recognizing it as my own current state.
We’re still rowing, as Anne Sexton writes; still moving away from the pit. Like many of us, David, the writer of many Psalms, is both very joyful and very fearful; he spends most of his time asking God to please, please hear him: that God would just please be near to him.
We are all David, both coping and yet not, weaning our subconscious minds away from various lies and suspicions – constantly asking God to be present. The Psalms, and really, poetry in general, remind me that there are other people waking up in the morning to realize that they are still themselves. That we are all still chasing after a God that we suspect is somehow there, and also, just out of reach.
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 A Psalm for the Neighborhood
A Meditation on Psalm 29
Give the Lord some credit,
for crying out loud.
Roll your eyes less,
and look for some matching socks
once in awhile, unless you can’t.
Then, He doesn’t care.
The voice of the Lord is across the street
yelling into the kitchen about spaghetti,
asking about basil.
The voice of the Lord is unruffled;
The voice of the Lord is like apple butter on biscuits.
The voice of the Lord insists on vacuuming the carpet;
And on opening up the living room to basketball shoes.
He makes the block croon like a quartet,
shift in between major and minor keys.
The voice of the Lord hammers in a new mailbox.
The voice of the Lord says something dull about the weather,
The Lord covers her hair in the snow.
The voice of the Lord mows the lawn,
and considers buying chickens,
which are a big thing now,
in the city.
Everyone.
Try and remember to say, “Thank you!”
As you run out the door.
The Lord seems to know when to watch
out the back porch.
The Lord checks the lights.
The Lord waits up.
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