I didn’t have time this month to write my usual essay. I might have gotten it done if I’d forsaken sleep and sanity, but this month a different voice prevailed. It asked of me the courage to acknowledge that I have limits, too; that denying myself in the service of sharing myself isn’t the measure of a wise man, but a fool.
I was reminded, too, that for years I’ve been struggling to find enough time to be a writer and an editor and a husband and a father and a friend, and also to find the time to step away from those roles into a deeper, more intimate communion with myself.
