I like writing. Or maybe I like having written. Let me explain: I just submitted a draft of a book chapter that, God willing, will be published in a very good press. It was an all-consuming task for several months. The last week was nearly non-stop research and writing for seven days straight. It felt biblical, transformational. And yet I could recognize parts of myself changing–becoming more logical, distant, less sensitive to my reactions to people, less a part of this world. And now that I’m three days away from submitting it, I feel warmer, more connected to my surroundings. I crave vigorous athletic activity. And love and affection. Medievals scholastics called it the vita contemplativa and its thrills are undeniable and real. But there is something lost or marginalized, too. It’s a sacrifice of self and others. Life is full of choices. I guess my hope is that it always feels like a hard choice.