Different Kind of Quiet

The stillness of my house on the day of her return to school. Deep. Abiding. Nourishing. Lonely. Full of the pull of what is possible and the inertia of the possibility of doing nothing. A pilgrimage of sorts.

The Great Turning by Mark Nepo

I have returned to this cabin year after

year. To sit before this very window and

wait for the same trees to sway when no

one’s looking. As if this year, I might

listen better and hear more.

Something in us wants to make a

pilgrimage of everything. As if there is

always more. Always some stretch of wonder

we turn away from at the last second. Because

we can’t hold our breath any longer. Because

we can’t keep awake long enough. Because

we can hold our heart like a hand over

the open flame of truth only so long.

And so, we must go back.

Somehow, in God’s time, what we need

is just beyond what we can manage. And

what is fleeting to the eye and lasting to the

soul calls to us while we sleep. It waits

beneath the noise for our return.

It doesn’t matter where we return to.

Any opening will do. A cold snowy morn

off the old highway. Or a patch of heather

bending to a yellow wind. Or the shimmering

sea along the coast of your eyes which I have

always known but never seen until today.

Something in us wants to return

without repeating, the way the earth

turns on a fire no one can see.