I haven't felt much like talking these days, both in real life and in blog land. A part of me is trying to figure out what this means, trying to hold together in my hands the many fragmented pieces that might be contributing to this need for quiet space inside, while another part of me feels like all that work of holding things together to figure them out is just too noisy.

So, there's a lot going on and many thoughts and feelings rumbling around in my spirit, but most of them sound really muffled to me. And while I could take the time to tease each of them out, doing so feels not quite right, right now. Something is telling me to just let the process take its course, to just be in this space without need for explanation, without trying so hard to make some sense as it goes on.

I will say, though, that the best thing that could have happened in this space of quiet happened for me last night, when I got home from my third night of hospice training. Kirk was laying down, reading, with just the soft light from the nightstand lamp going, and I came into the room and sat on the bed next to him. It was the first time we'd had to spend with each other all day, since we're on opposite school schedules this month and my hospice training took up the evening. We just sat on the bed, talking gently and quietly with each other for a while, and I began to see the beauty of our care for one another in that moment. We were listening, really listening, to the other share thoughts and impressions and news from the day, and then offering something back in return. The conversation meandered over a lot of subjects, all joined by this spirit of listening and sharing in a true, real, and gentle way together. It really soothed my spirit. It made me feel safe and held.