I bought Donald Miller's A Million Miles in a Thousand Years on a whim last week, and I've been savoring it bit by bit. He has such a simple way to explain things that go straight to the heart. In part of the book, he talks about being in a boat, paddling away from the shore. Everything in the distance is still there, slowly getting smaller and smaller until you can no longer see it. All you can see is the water around you; the other side hasn't appeared yet. You paddle and paddle, and feel like you're going nowhere. But you can't give up. You have to press on, even though you're wondering why you left the shore in the first place and you're not exactly sure where you're going to end up.
It's very much how life feels right now. I'm in the boat. I'm paddling. I'd like to give up (because I'm tired and scared). But I'm reminding myself to feel the length and the width of it, to feel the uncomfortable transition, to stop being afraid. All of this is easy to explain, but being in it is hard. Trying to feel it and not be overwhelmed by all of it is hard.
And so today, after a minor meltdown, I took my daughter and my camera to the lake for a walk. The air was cool and the sun was shining. We spent an hour doing nothing together. It was just what I needed.