You can only drink from a fire hose for so long before you start to drown.
It is Friday and I wake up tired, hoarse and homesick.
Until this morning I have felt invincible. I have strode victorious through each full day and each late night. I've known, somewhere in the sane recesses of my mind, that I would have to pay one day. I think that day might be today.
I sleep in. I dawdle late to breakfast. I race past the omelette station line towards the faster yogurt and granola.
Today I am missing my wife. I am missing my kids. I am reminded of them everywhere. How they would love to see the koi pond. How they would like to meet these new friends.
But right now they are home and I am here. And my time is rapidly dwindling.
Our morning songwriting session is full of beautiful songs and insightful critique from Linford and Karin of Over the Rhine. In a standout moment – the type of moment that gives you chills for it's singular specialness – Jack Korbel sings us a song accapella. He breaks our hearts. Linford moves to the piano and asks Jack to sing it again while he plays some of the most mournful chords I've ever heard. Our hearts melt.
The song is about a mother leaving her husband and kids for a time. The husband puts on a brave face for his kids, but the low grey sky reveals the true condition of his aching heart.
My heart is aching, too.
Lunch comes and goes. I fall asleep and miss the afternoon session.
My weary body wins. I crash.
In the evening I finally catch a Santa Fe sunset. It is so magical that I miss the beginning of our worship time with Richard Rohr. This painted sky is a reminder, while I am here, to enjoy the gifts I cannot get at home. These people. These sunsets. I stay outside on the patio making repeated attempts to capture the magnificence of this sky. I fail.
I go to bed early tonight. At least early for The Glen Workshop.
I have just one more day here, and I want to live it well.