A Flicker Toward Life
It was one of those days that left me drained and restless. It was the kind of day that yanks you in every direction at once. By the time I sat down to journal, the day already felt like a blur. There had been frustration, hard choices, and a fragile spark of hope all jumbled together. My thoughts were cloudy, but writing helped me find the shape of it, helped me see the patterns beneath the chaos. That’s what journaling often does for me. The Stoics would call it evening reflection. Wesleyans might call it examen or discernment. Either way, it’s a way of pulling a heavy, scattered day into some kind of order.
The day began in one rhythm and ended in another. I started strong, with progress on personal business in the morning. At the same time, my sister LeeAnn took the early hospital shift with Mom. The plan was simple: I’d meet a friend for lunch, then spend the rest of the day with Mom. I needed that balance. Something ordinary before stepping back into the gravity of the hospital. But before I even got to lunch, the plan shattered.
LeeAnn called: the doctors had decided to discharge Mom to rehab. On the surface, good news. Underneath, it triggered a scramble. We had to update the Power of Attorney, and fast. So I found myself racing to scan the document, leaning on AI tools to draft a new one. One solution wasted my time. Another finally got it right. Precious minutes ticked by, the kind that sting when you already feel stretched thin.
The discharge itself dragged on for hours. Paperwork. Waiting on transport. Endless minor delays that stacked like bricks on my back. None of it was in my control. Epictetus would have told me so from the start: “Some things are up to us and some are not. If you think the things that are not up to you are up to you, you will be thwarted.” He was right, of course, but knowing that doesn’t make the waiting easier.
By evening, I was with Mom again. We had some difficult conversations. She had started saying, “I’m tired, I’m ready to go.” That night, though, I saw the tiniest shift. A flicker. She spoke of rehab. Of getting better. She didn’t say it with conviction, not yet, but it was there. A step forward from resignation toward possibility.
I reminded her, as did my sisters, that her choice would be honored. If she were ready to let go, we would respect that. But it felt good, in that fragile moment, to see even the smallest lean toward life. Seneca once said, “Sometimes even when the body is weak, the mind can still rally.” That was what I saw in her. A mind is creating a faint rally against her challenge.
Tomorrow her grandson is coming. Their bond runs deep, reaching back to when he was just a baby. His presence carries a weight none of us can match. Marcus Aurelius wrote, “We were born for cooperation, like feet, like hands, like eyelids, like the rows of upper and lower teeth.” Sometimes cooperation means nothing more than showing up, letting presence speak where words fail. I believe his visit may strengthen her flicker of determination.
The day was full of hard edges, but also a thread of gratitude. On the drive back a few days earlier, a friend had called and kept me talking for nearly ninety minutes. We didn’t dwell on heavy things. He carried the conversation with what he jokingly calls his “landscaping philosophy.” Later, when I thanked him for intuitively knowing I needed that company, he laughed and said I was giving him too much credit. “I just found someone willing to listen to me drone on about mulch and hedges.” That small exchange brought me both laughter and relief. Gratitude, the Stoics remind us, is not just a feeling; it’s an action. Seneca said, “He who receives a benefit with gratitude repays the first installment of it.” Sending that text of thanks was my way of paying that first installment.
Gratitude also fits my faith. John Wesley spoke often of grace as both a gift and a response. We are not self-sufficient; we live by the gifts of others. My friend’s rambling conversation may not have been intended as grace, but it arrived as such, and I received it as such.
When I think about how cloudy my mind felt during the day, I’m grateful for the practice of evening reflection. I sat with pen in hand, trying to trace meaning through the fog. The Hidden Brain podcast recently described how Marcus Aurelius treated his Meditations not as a polished book but as a personal diary of sorts, written in the second person, almost like advice to a friend. That resonated with me.
Writing clears my head. It lets me step outside the swirl and look back with a calmer eye. It’s a Stoic exercise, but also a spiritual one. It’s my way of practicing what Wesley might call holiness of heart and life. I’m examining myself, seeking truth, finding where grace still flickers even on the hardest days.
I won’t pretend there was a neat resolution. The day was messy. My patience frayed. I felt the weight of decisions and the helplessness of waiting. But in the cracks of it all, there were lessons. Lessons the Stoics would recognize.
Control is limited. I could not change hospital schedules, paperwork delays, or the stubborn pace of transport. But I could choose my response. I could breathe, solve what problems I could, and try not to let anger add to the load. James Stockdale, who survived years of captivity, put it this way: “You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end, which you can never afford to lose, with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality.” That day was not war or prison, but the principle held: acknowledge reality, and hold faith alongside it.
Hope is fragile. Mom’s shift in words was slight, almost imperceptible, but it mattered. Sometimes that is nothing more than holding space for another person’s hope to stir, however faintly.
Relationships matter. Jackson’s visit could mean more than any of my speeches or reassurances. Connection has power, a concept the Stoics called oikeiosis, the natural affection that binds family, community, humanity. Sometimes presence is the medicine.
Gratitude is action. My text to a friend was small, but it mattered. Marcus Aurelius wrote, “Don’t act as if you are going to live ten thousand years. While you live, while it is in your power, be good.” Gratitude is one way to be good while we still have time.
And endings require dignity. When I finally put down my pen, I wrote “adieu.” A farewell not just to the day but to its burdens. Marcus reminded himself daily, “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” Seneca urged, “Balance life’s account every day.” Saying adieu was my way of closing the ledger, not with despair but with dignity.
The day taught me again that Stoicism is not abstract. It shows up in the messy, human, unplanned hours. It shows up in waiting rooms, in strained conversations, in faint flickers of hope, and in unexpected laughter about mulch and hedges. It shows up in gratitude texts and in whispered prayers.
And so I carry forward. The philosophy that came to me through ancient voices now speaks again through my own lived experience: Marcus, Seneca, Epictetus, Wesley. Even Stockdale, who found strength in Stoicism during years of unimaginable suffering. Their words remind me that what matters most is not avoiding chaos or sorrow but meeting them with steadiness, honesty, and love.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. None of us does. But today gave me a glimpse of how philosophy and faith can steady the heart, even in the hardest of days. That flicker in Mom’s words was a gift. My task now is to hold on to it, nurture it, and let it teach me again what it means to live with resilience and grace. As Robert Frost wrote:
“Always fall in with what you’re asked to accept. Take what is given, and make it over your way.”
