I had something wonderfully profound that I was going to write about this morning and now it has completely slipped my mind. Age would be a nice excuse, except I've always forgotten things. (But here I am anyway, blogging about nothing simply because I want to be blogging. It's a creative outlet for my soul, two days into it.)
Well, I've been thinking about the idea(s) of solitude and silence. I've been wondering where and when I can cash in on the discipline. About the only place I can get solitude and silence is in the bathroom. And even then little hands pound on the door or argument and crying break out from across the house. I am rarely alone. At night, after everyone has gone to bed, I'm too tired. I would like to go out and find solitude in the morning, in the light of the sunrise. But the kids are continually interrupting my sanctification. They clog up the wheels and cogs with muddy hands and sticky fingers and spilled juice. Ah, if it weren't for them, what I couldn't be.
SNAFU is a good working description of life. Kids are the incarnation of it. The problem is we become deceived into thinking that it ought to be smooth sailing. It ought to be all about me. Who sold us that bill of goods? No computer problems, no crying kids, plenty of time to find rest and solitude -- smooth waters. Interruption happens. Life is muddy hands, sticky fingers, and spilled juice. Those things are holy.
So maybe I just need to carve out some time for solitude and silence. I could always stop watching so much TV -- maybe get to bed earlier so that I can wake up earlier. Whatever.
3 comments:
Hi Scott. Sherry (Dorris) here. Mr. Quinn's class, 6th grade. Don't know if you remember me, but I remember you and Alison pointed me to your blog. I'm loving your thoughts, your writing.
"Life is muddy hands, sticky fingers, and spilled juice. Those things are holy."
Oh, how I needed to be reminded of this one today.
Keep writing.
There you are! It sounds so familiar, Sherry. But alas! I don't remember. There's not much I remember from sixth grade, though. I wasn't in Mr. Quinn's class, but in, well, the other classroom (Mrs. Aimes?). I can't remember her name.
No worries, Scott. Even the best memory can be sucked dry by the presence of small children in one's life.
Because my family moved to Southern California *TOTALLY AGAINST MY PERSONAL WISHES* immediately following that year, I remember quite a bit from then--it was cemented into my memory as I daydreamed about you all and the good old days at LCS, simultaneously shedding many bitter tears over my new location and lack of friends.
I can't remember where I left my car keys or what I had for lunch today, but I can remember 6th grade--although I was having trouble coming up with the name Mrs. Aimes, as well.
I was a tall, lanky, tomboyish girl, who loved to play practical jokes and question authority, had no interest in "going around" with anyone or any other frilly girl stuff, and with Alison, usually preferred to play sports with the guys at recess.
But whether you ever remember anything about Sherry (Dorris) or not doesn't really matter to me. It's just fun to feel connected with a part of my past again. Plus, it's neat to find such cool, Godly adults that I only knew as goofy kids.
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