Tonight I spent some time updating the journal I've kept for Quinn since he was a baby. I'm not much into baby books, but I enjoy writing, so I've kept a sporadic journal of his life. I read it after I finished tonight's entry and found it nice to remember moments or stories I had forgotten.
In all the cleaning and sorting, filing and organizing, and looking through that I've been doing lately, I've found it hard to let my mind rest on one topic. Like a bird lost over the ocean, I am wearied by my inability to land. Work and life have been hectic, and I find myself disengaged from just about everything. Reading is difficult because words dance before my eyes for ages before I can extract any meaning from them, and writing feels like I'm trying to speak through mud or as if I'm trying to form words after just waking from heavy anesthesia.
I spent some time praying for rescue, for a place to land amidst the floodwaters of my soul. I'm still waiting. But that's faith a lot of the time for me right now, watching other people's lives move forward while I look for a place to land or an olive branch to let me know that land is out there somewhere.