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I really don't know where to begin, but I'm exhausted.

Exhausted in the sense that trying to feel full will only leave you feeling more empty, more aware of all that is not filling the gaps. Like the poems that haven't been written. The music that hasn't been played. The blog that hasn't been written. 

I sit here with a glass of wine and tired, heavy eyes wondering what I am chasing. 

I get up and gogogo. I come home and gogogo. Constantly going: the complete opposite of my life not too long ago. I never have been very good at the whole balance thing.

I've been caught up in everything at once. I want to be, to do, to act, to think, to know, to learn, to believe it all. There is so much that I want and so much of that is intangible--I cannot hold faith intertwined with my fingers and think that it will not slip through like sand. I cannot grasp it at all. 

I find my time unevenly distributed between work and church and everything else. Like pie charts that we build at work, the last section can optionally be omitted because it's such a small portion that its contribution to the whole goes unrecognized. But some of the most significant side effects reside in that sliver. 

Is that all they are? Side effects? I have settled in to a life of work and sleep and food and a church that I can't wrap my head around and a god that I cannot meet and the rest of who I thought I brought with me when I packed my car and drove West: well, where is all of that? Did I drop a piece on the bus today? Did I lose it on the street? Has the city pulled me in its stopwatch rhythms of the double-time ticktickticktick that makes time feel fluid, coming and going in Puget Sound's constant pulse?

I think I so often search for contentment because of this imbalance. I want my glass to be just to the top--not too much or I will feel overwhelmed as life pours over the sides; not too little or I will feel a constant yearning and hunger. I think right now, I have a glass in each hand. My left is nearly empty, wanting more, wanting words, wanting color and song. My right is overflowing, never pausing, never slowing, never damming the stream of thought and act. 

I want to be a child. I want to sit down at a miniature table and feel like I belong because my toes just touch the floor. I want to grasp one cup with both hands and be glad when the water touches my lips and not the table. I want to not worry beyond the present moment--no fear of future or past.

I'm sure this is a lot to ask. 

I got a swig this weekend. The other side of the Sound feels like going to the unseen home. Woods, moss, and crispest air welcome me and my second family. 

Right away, the two littlest girls tumbled in the soggy fields. Assessing that it wasn't much to fret about, we continued on. Maybe five minutes later, I was running around with the girls when the ground left me, and I, too, found myself flat on my bum. Gosh did I need that.

I spent the day trying not to think about how cold and uncomfortable wet jeans feel. I was lucky that good company and god-made landscape pull away negative thoughts. 

We made our way along the paths, noticing the many sights the woods had to offer. We stopped at a raised, wooden platform overlooking a bog and sipped tea and munched. I have had Kenny Rogers stuck in my head ever since. 

We continued on to the Hood Canal. I know it's cliche, but nothing resounds serenity like water. Rhythm, wet, the echo of our heartbeats--the one thing on earth we can most connect to because we are that. 

We walked along the water, letting our shoes sink into the soggy sand of low tide. We picked our fingers at the critters that swirled in tide pools, poking the underbellies of sand dollars that lay scattered and stacked like church bulletins in a basket. 

As we started walking back towards the path, we walked by a large rock. 

"Alright, just one rock." It hadn't crossed my mind, but as soon as it was suggested, it became a must. 

After the initial rush of sand began to settle, we noticed the tiny crabs sliding sideways up the sand, in search of their familiar shelter. 

We picked them up. At first, I was afraid to. Sure we used to catch crayfish all the time, but I was never really afraid of them pinching. These little buggers seemed more intimidating. The crabs would wriggle their legs as if they could get hold of the air; they'd wave their claws like a symphonic conductor, but the tune was short. They soon gave in and decided to wait out the flight.

I learned so much from these few simple events.

That if you don't slow down, you'll surely fall, and even the bruise on your backside will remind you to take more careful strides.

That if you constantly fight the air, you'll find that you haven't even accomplished as much as walking on a treadmill: you can't always control the settings.

That if you don't accept your surroundings as the place that you call home, you will constantly feel unrest. 

And I'm still learning.

Yesterday I learned that it's really dumb to pour boiling water into a glass, no less a glass that is in your hand. 

Today I learned that even if you run to catch the bus, run to get to Community, run to make dinner, you will still be out of breath when you enter the race. 

So I'm not sure how I got to all of this. I tend to let the broccoli lead the way most days (thank you, Anne Lamott). But I know that I feel like a thousand sighs will not suffice. I know that I'm not sure how the days are supposed to fit together: it's like I've made each square of a quilt, but I don't know how to match them into a whole.

Phew, I also know that my metaphors are getting pretty out-there. 

There's just so much, and I can't seem to fit it all in just 10 hours of daylight or even 14 hours of night.