In Defense of Trudging

William: Oi sir, what are you doing?

Chaucer: Uh... trudging. You know, trudging? To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on.

Trudging. It feels as dreary as it sounds. When feeling overwhelmed, I must admit the thought of giving in - plopping down in a chair, closing my eyes, and ignoring the world -  flickers through my mind, (for all of about ten seconds.) 

"Ugh. Breathing. Not really feeling it today."

That is when reality (often in the form of my very busy toddler) smacks me on the forehead and demands that I get moving. Of course I must keep moving. I must plod onward. I must trudge ahead. There are children to care for, dishes and laundry to wash, lessons to plan, and lots and lots of lawn to mow. The wood needs to be split and stacked. The car needs an oil change. There's butter to churn. (Okay, not really.) There are fitted sheets to fold, toilet paper rolls to be changed (over, not under), and shoes to be found.  Oh, and then there is dinner to cook...

I think trudging gets a bad rap. Perhaps I would rather be seen as striding, cantering, or even sauntering through my day, but truly, trudging will do. Trudging implies an act of the will to keep moving when everything in you begs you to go take a nap. Trudging means I haven't given up entirely. Trudging means... Dare I say it? Hope. Yes, that's it. Hope. Hope that if I just keep on keeping on things will get better.  

Here's hoping that in time my trudging will give way to a forward motion that better resembles the slo-mo-hero-walk toward the camera. 

Oooh, yeah.