It's been an exhaustingly long week. I'm home alone except for the 4.5 year old who has alternated between stomping around in my new pair of boots and watching a movie from the 1960s. We like to keep them current around here. I'm hiding out in the kitchen hoping that his equally long week will catch up with him and sleep would claim him where he lays. Then I would truly be alone.
During my run yesterday I pondered how unquiet my life really is. Three children under 13 certainly create their own beautiful cacophony of noise. It's not that I would change the noise, it would just be terrific if I could calibrate it a bit better. I've been surprised in recent years to discover that my hearing is actually getting more acute with the turning of the calendar. And to think I was counting on quite the opposite as a benefit of the aging process.
All that to say, I miss the mountains. I miss the meadows. I miss a wide open quiet space that calls to my soul. That bids me come, sit and reflect on the Creator of all things. It is there that I feel whole, all the random bits and bytes knitted together in perfect harmony. Deep calling to deep.
For now I'll make do with a quiet kitchen and an almost empty house.
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