Maybe it’s the heat. It was ninety degrees in the mountains today, and until the cool breeze picked up in the evening, it was a stifling heat.
Or rather, more likely, it is the reality of what the desert fathers talked about. Staying in one’s cell, one’s simple room, is the key, because in doing this one can find a rhythm. This is a rhythm of the soul, founded upon simplicity of schedule, of focus on the miniscule, in remembering the path to life.
Leaving changes the rhythm, opens up doors which bear many temptations, and paths which seem to have interesting sites at their end.
To return is difficult, to restart is time consuming. Because a life beckons, but it is not the life of calling. Some people fill their lives so that all they know is this transition. They never commune quietly for the length it takes to settle into a rhythm, though they always try. So, in stopping they approach, but never arrive, the beat always faultering.
I know the feeling of the rhythm, and now, when a new song is beginning to play, when an impasse still looms, it takes even longer to recover.
I make the allowance in my weakness, and misplaced hopes, when I commit to other places, fulfilling, to be sure, even deeper commands of love and friendship. But they beckon me to stay past my allotted time. So I return and do not want to, but it is where I am meant to be.
Maybe, though, it is just the heat. Winter is my season, cold is my most trusted muse. At least for writing and studying.
I did notice that something was a little kooky with my archives below. Should be fixed now. Something productive. Though… truth be told, with a few things I am waiting on the efforts of others to do their parts before I can press on again in those directions. Patience is a virtue.