There are times when I find that I don’t fully agree with myself. An answering voice to my last blog quietly demands this page.
Silencing the commotion in my hive is also a noble state.
There is a point where busyness is mere noise, bustle and blather. The agitated
mind is not a good listener.
Alexa is playing Yo-Yo Ma. I can feel my brain drifting.
Its motion is not darting but following a slow pulse, contoured like a wave. No
lyrics accompany this cello.
I am not to be interrupted while I’m unbusying myself, like
a plane jettisoning fuel, emptying the weight of words, the cargo of exhausted
ideas.
Portals and pores are opening for deeper breaths. If I think
of Trump, he is summarily dismissed. My store of vituperative adjectives is
also overthrown. There is an enormous shadowed place but a tropism bends toward the
light.
Can I reach stillness? Only a hush. An interval between fathoms
of the bowed instrument.
In the silence it is as if going to the well, not to quench my parched throat but to water the soil wordlessly.
Holding both stillness and busyness in tandem feels like home. Each is fed by the other. The contradiction is life itself.
No comments:
Post a Comment