Maybe it's the work I disagree with

I like books. Books rock. Books are warm. Books are cozy. Books have no expectations. I can pick them up. Read them for 5, 10, 20, or 200 minutes. Make notes when and where I want to, and put them down. Sometimes I put them face down, still open, straining the spine. Sometimes I use a random sushi lunch reciept to mark my page. Sometimes, and this would make more than one of my friends cringe, I dog ear the page I left off on. But, give me a workbook and it's another story.

Now I have chores. Now I have paperwork. Now I have this little bundle of guilt waiting for me to get busy, or get lazy, or forget to do my homework. And on the rare occasion that I have the will, the time, and I can find the stupid thing, here comes the fill in the blank regurgitative crap I hated in Sunday school.

I would love to wave my little postmodern fist in the air and complain about the modernistic man trying to cram my 21st century spiritual experience into their 20th century box. But I think that's because I have been reading alot of McLaren lately.

I would love to say that I'm just not cut out for this kind of learning. But I have been thinking more and more about going back to school, or something along those lines.

I would love to say it were anything but my lack of discipline. But I think if this were the only area where I was lacking the discipline to just sit down and do something, I could blame this something. But it is not, by a long shot.

I think it's the work I disagree with.