Why is patience always working so hard for my time? Why is stillness trying to find me? They, in their gentle manner, keep showing up, I see them follow me, waiting for a turn to speak. Do they not know I am busy, I am running? Do they not know I need to swallow the whole world even if it will make me blind?
I want to climb inside your quiet. It threw me off, that's certain, the quiet in even your hands and your ease in the silent moments that drift in and out of our conversation. The quiet of your attention even, one thing at a time, it makes me aware of the buzzing in my brain and the worry, so much worry in me, some fear and some conspiracy, some hesitancy and some dismay. The quiet way you drink your coffee, sitting down. Facing forward. You do not fly around your apartment, throwing lunch together, or trying to find a matching pair of socks, coffee mug following you around from room to room and getting cold. And the way your quiet gently quiets me, sshhh, it lands like a sweet spring wind kissing softly the trees on the way home.
[Picture by Kimberley Hasselbrink].
That is often the problem - we know not easily how to be silent, and still. Both, together, that is the thing. I know how to be silent for a time, but you can be sure my hands will be kept busy. I can be still, but I will learn to fill the stillness with shouting or chatter or worry (which, I suppose, is not still at all). If we were to be silent and still we would be in the posture to hear it, and feel it - all of the earth resounding in song, and in dance, swaying us, drifting us toward truth, toward Home.