I should be asleep.
But I caught a glimpse of the moon the past few nights, and it's been beckoning me to try and capture it in all of its bright and shining brilliance, fully glowing above the lake.
So instead of climbing into bed and snuggling under the sheets, I quietly sneaked out the creaky front door of the cabin, camera in hand in the fullness of 10:44 p.m.
And standing in the chilled sand, crickets and frogs and lapping waves the constant noise against the night, I sort of abandoned what I'd set out to do with capturing the moon, and instead breathed out all of the chaos that's been swirling around in my head these past few weeks, pressing myself into the peaceful night air.
There were no real moments of clarity had out on the moonlit beach concerning the heaviness of life decisions we've been tackling, like G's school options for this year and business moves and standing up for unpopular convictions amid peers and colleagues.
Instead, on that shore, there was just a deep breath of acceptance -- an embracing of the reality that sometimes our lenses don't offer up this crystal clear glimpse of what's right before us.
Sometimes, like with capturing the moon, glimpses of what I think I see are blurred and then, after I've been looking at it for awhile, I step back and blinkblinkblink, mess with the focus and find that what I've been trying to get a good capture of becomes a little clearer with every following experiment of the camera, with each proceeding shot.
There's clarity brewing in the time it takes to get a clearer glimpse, in the learning that accompanies it.