It used to be that we friends and neighbors seemed to have much more dialogue. Ideas. Stories. Questions. Laughter. Love.
Then, conversations took a turn. Or maybe what the world wanted us to be talking about invaded, and we did not see what each other had to offer. At least not more than the highlights and the tragedies. We missed the common spaces and the mundane.
This morning, in a new rhythm of life, I find myself sitting in a familiar chair with a new view. The breeze is coming from the west, as it usually does in these parts.
I am enjoying silence. I slept late. I have not slept late in years, with any sort of regularity. Sleep is challenge enough. Much less, rolling back over at 6:30 and drifting into dreams.
Much is astir in the world. As it always is. It seems daunting. But I have come to a point in the last 18 months that I cannot give myself to the roar. Many things change that cause uproars and broken lives. There will always be rage and violence. I choose not to participate.
It is time for peace. I have hungered for peace. Less churn. More calm. I dare not write the “q” word. In my arena, we have our superstitions.
In this silence where I sit, I can hear — actually hear — the wind in the trees. The finches chirping. A cawing crow as a squirrel chews on something over at the foot of the spruce. Something is shuffling in the leaves. Remnants of loud cicadas come in waves. The tall grasses of the hayfield wait to be cut and raked for the third time this summer. Even the cattle are so still as to enjoy these last hours of summer.
Something more is turning in me. Maybe it is coming in you, too, Gentle Reader. A shifting. Choices. How will I live in these days ahead? My decisions or someone else’s? What is authentic to me and my larger household of friends and connections, my child, our creatures? What will begin anew? What will cease?
Ah, there is a songbird. Her charming voice rings out loudly. Over the stillness. She is to the east, where tomorrow, the sun rises again. I will look there. I will look within.
Longing to breathe deeply and to walk with others as they seek to meet their longings, C.A. Rollins writes and invites you to reflect with her at email@example.com.