Silent Hour, Holy Hour
There are gifts wrapped inside the package of silence that can’t be given any other way.
If I fail to fall quiet, my eyes rarely seek out the window and the landscape beyond.I miss the solitary winter cardinal as it flings itself from limb to barren limb, like Turkish red embroidery stitched upon a field of rugged homespun fabric.
If I fail at noise reduction, my fingers neither anticipate nor appreciate the fine texture of a sheet of linen stationery, or a sheet of Egyptian cotton. I do not feel, when life is loud, the tenderness of my husband’s soul when his bearded cheek caresses my hand.
If I turn down the volume on everything but my own heartbeat, though, for even the briefest of moments, I hear thoughts swirling in my head. They are my thoughts, all mine, not those of another planted there during cacophonous hours. Sounding like a foreign language to me at first, a language I only vaguely recall, my quiet thoughts soon feel like the measure of who I am.
In utter silence, I hear droplets from icicles pinging the porch rail.
I feel breaths, drawn in shallows, making way for dreams drawn from depths.
Posted by Katy on 01/24/11 at 01:49 PMFallible Comments...
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