"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens."
Ecclesiastes 3:1
I've been hiding lately.
I know it.
I feel compelled to say - to tell you - that I know this. Maybe telling you is a way of letting the light fall on part of my arm and feet, from behind the curtain, like the girl in this picture.
I'm still here.
Most of the time when I hide it's because I am isolating myself, and that is never a good thing. I'm not convinced that is what is happening right now. I think what I am doing is more like a pause. Everything is going fast around me and I'm saying - "Wait. Just wait a minute".
Because the swarming outside makes it hard to hear the tectonic plates shifting way down deep. Subterranean displacement of my soul's earth isn't something I can ignore. I feel it and I react. Especially when I'm busy and rushing and worrying and distracted and have phrases like "should have" and "need to" and "what am I forgetting?" resounding in my mind. Then a small push, in the wrong place, at the wrong time sends hot, blistering, scarring magma spewing all over the people I love.
Let's face it, my kids get the worst of the hot lava. But right now I think everyone might be feeling more of a deep freeze from me. Silence where there usually is an abundance of curious, searching dialogue. I am not in a place of sharing. I am not sure what will come of the deep earth shift. I feel protective of the places unseen, unknown. I trust the explorer. I trust my God. I trust my instinct. I will slow down. I will pay attention.
I can't stay here permanently, or for very long. I know the curtain could turn into a cocoon of isolation and withdrawal. It's tricky terrain, which I most likely shouldn't navigate on my own. I'm in hiding, but I'm making a declaration of it, which is my safety net. I'm basically saying, "I'm over here, I plan on coming out, but if I take a really long time, or my arm or toes disappear, could you check on me?"
