I'm back. A week away from here is a long time for me.
I haven't gone on strike or decided this blog sucks too much of my time (though, if I were sane, I would certainly come to that conclusion). Rather, I've been away with my family at our friend's cabin in LaConner. We slept in; ate cheese and crackers for most our meals; spent hours on the beach; played games; had friends and family down. Just one work phone call for me, no internet, no food blogging or facebooking. As it turns out, that's just what the doctor ordered.
I'm an extrovert (surprise). I've come to the conclusion that Western culture favors extroverts--promotes them, humors them, values the way they "share everything" with everyone. So it's easy for extroverts to come out thinking they're pretty darn engaging. I'll never not be an extrovert, but I needed some time away from all the input and output in my life, some time to remember who I am apart from postings, comments, feedback, calendars, some time to engage with this self that's gotten distracted by the chatter.
You'll notice I'm back with the sharing. Please. I haven't gone that far. And I'm going to share this with you, this lovely quote from the mystic Diadochus of Photiki. It's cropped up many times in my life:
When the door of the steambath is continually left open, the heat inside rapidly escapes through it; likewise the soul, in its desire to say many things, dissipates the remembrance of God through the door of speech, even though everything it says may be good...Timely silence, then, is precious, for it is nothing less than the mother of the wisest thoughts.
I had a lot of time-stopping moments this week-- podcasts, books, poems, conversations, a concert, lying in bed with Yancey in the morning and listening to the kids pouring themselves cereal. I could write a whole post on each of them, but I'm not going to. I missed you, but I want to keep the warmth in for awhile longer. Humor me, will you? You know those extroverts--they're high maintenance, and there will be plenty of time to listen to them when they can't abide the silence any longer.