It's Wednesday today, the smack-dab-middle of the week; I didn't sleep again last night. Before the sun was up, my spirit was already bent beneath the weight of the day, like the trees under this new snowfall. A silent bearing, a stark remaining. My work is hard. I'm three years in, but there were three years before that, and four before that. Maybe it's not the duration so much as the intensity, the all-of-me that it requires, the vigilance and the attunement and the background-app-refresh of working with complex ideas day in and day out. Being a theologian means pondering the unknowable yet not turning away, almost as if what can't be known urgently must be known. And indeed, it must. Or maybe the hard part is not the work itself, but coming to realize that who I am and what I produce is always going to be at the fringes of my profession. It's a reckoning with loneliness, I suppose. To look around and realize the brightest minds in bioethics are always going...
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