Substacks are buzzing. Everyone across the spectrum is either burying Caesar or he is praising himself. Whether this is just a blip in the narrative or an epochal change occupies the talking heads. Along with that are strategies ranging from impeachment to investigations to finding middle ground to all the above.
For me, it is a Rhapsody in Blue but I've had my fill and now I'm craving John Cage's 4 minutes, 33 seconds of silence.
Hushing the commotion in my hive is 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 an approximation. 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 alertness in tandem feels like home. Each is fed by the other. The contradiction is life itself.
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