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.