Through a series of unremarkable events, the hours have slipped from one day to the next and I find myself sitting here, yet another month gone by between writings. I don’t know how this happens. Or rather, I do, but I don’t know how to change that.
My days are loud and long. My kids fuss and cry, yell and laugh, talk and play, and from the moment I wake up to the moment my head hits the pillow, I am either hearing a child or waiting for the next noise from the crib. I wouldn’t have it any other way, my kids are a delight (when I remember that they are) but it is loud and my head feels full and empty all at the same time.
The quiet is calling me. So softly.
I’m longing for it and deeply afraid of it at the same time. My soul needs stillness, but I fear what I will find, or maybe what I won’t find, if I attempt to create a quiet space. I’m afraid that if I just say it, that I’m going to go to bed earlier so I can wake up in the stillness, that I will just plain fail at that, forever. And I’ll keep medicating with noise and entertainment. That if I try to read God’s words to me more regularly, that he won’t meet me there. That if I make a space to write, I won’t find the words. That I’ll be tired and dumb forever. That if I try to be quiet, the to-dos and should-dos will never stop rearing their ugly heads and that they will always win, not by getting them done but by the guilt of not doing.
The thing is, I’m filling my head and my heart so full with all this stuff that is not helpful. These blogs I read, these good and kind people with their hearts for beauty, are killing me with their beauty found in the small moments. My most beautiful moments can’t compare with theirs, at least not as long as I’m comparing. My remarkably strong-willed and, at times, remarkably intelligent toddler can’t compare with that beautiful little girl who seems to love doing everything her mom comes up with for them to do, and really, I wouldn’t want her to. Unquestioning participation in any activity at all ever, even the most fun activity, is not who she is. At all. And that’s so, so great. It’s just that the pretty photographs are yelling at me that I’m not making our days more fun and peaceful, with just the right hazy lighting. More noise.
I need to know how to live my life, the way I’m supposed to live it. I need to know who I’m supposed to be, what’s important to me, and my family. And the only way I can figure all that out is in the quiet. It’s calling me, gently, and I think I may be almost close to being done with fighting it. In my own obviously noncommittal way.