I relish quietude. Sitting in the warm sand on a beach while the sun slips below the tide and sends a flourishing farewell to dazzle one's eyes sounds luxuriously serene. So, too, does a long hike to contemplate a cascade of water over rugged rocks and clefts.
And yet, spending those moments with the silence of the landscape seems so odd, too. Even savoring those rare moments of quiescence that pop up unexpectedly in the day feels disjointed to the normal chaos that surrounds me. As a mother of three sons, ranging from the homeschooled Kindergartener to the nursing newborn, silence is nearly obsolete. Or so it seems. When I do have a moment to pause, there are so many interests I want to pursue. I find it completely befuddling to consider the time I had before children; and yet, I recall the myriad part-time jobs, volunteering, and other opportunities that I no longer perform as a result of focusing on my children, my family, and my art.
Life is a difficult balance. Lately, I have felt so overwhelmed with the needs of home life (and especially the stringent schedule of my 3-month old, Gratian) that other equally important aspects of my life have been pushed aside. I long for spans of time to spin forms of clay on the potter's wheel, to contemplate the New Testament in its original Greek, to wordsmith new poetic creations, and find just the right perspective to photograph in nature. But, these aspects are more like water poured into a jar filled to the brim with tiny pebbles. I am able to fit them in over a span of time, even when those times are disconnected and feel remote.
Does your life feel this way, friend? Are you puddle-jumping, trying to get your feet to create just the right spray to enjoy? Maybe today will open up an opportunity to test out that puddle you're missing. And maybe, I'll find time for puddle-jumping, too.