I believe in the grace of stillness, in the peace of quiet. All of my beliefs are formed there; packaged in the gentility of silence. They are hidden within, in the deep calm that lurks in the depths of one being. It is here that I find most answers to my quests. Silence, stillness, peace, quiet, each is a part of the other and yet all are singularly unique; understanding them is even more difficult then finding them. When I hurt, when I doubt, when I am treading in a sea of rage, the answers I seek are ultimately revealed in these moments of peace.
Moments where I am curled into my favorite writing chair, seeking words for this or that, and who should join me but my precocious cat, Pants. She welcomes herself onto my lap; she needs my help with a particularly troublesome itch and as I settle into a soothing rhythm of tousling her long white fur, stillness fills me and I know without a doubt I am communicating without words with this creature, when suddenly it hits me. The words I was seeking just moments before are cascading through my mind. All I need to do is put pen to paper.
Moment in the still of a late evening, when my love comes home, tiptoeing to my side to remove the glasses askew on my face, the fallen book from my soft form. I don’t tell him that he doesn’t tiptoe well, or that I wake as soon as I smell his distinct cologne near me. I don’t tell him because as I peek at him through my lashes I see that he too understands the wonders of silence. More is shared through the gentleness of his tucking me in than could be said properly or poetically in the night. And so I pretend to sleep some nights after he has wakened me because I believe that our silence sings. It sings of trust, of faith in our future and of our past. I’ve searched all of my very short life for a love that would transcend the noise of this Earth, for someone who understood this and although I’d like to shout aloud how blissful this can be I’ll sit by his side instead on this brisk February morning with our cat in my lap and enjoy the calm because most often my silence speaks for itself.
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