Recently I've felt the need to shut up.
True, I'm not usually the most talkative person anyway. True, I can't seem to think and speak at the same time, and so often prefer to let my thoughts rumble before they tumble. And true, that has saved me from many an awful situation.
However, despite that, I do still feel unusually quiet at the moment. I think it's out of a desire to listen better: to other people, to God, and to the little rhythms of my own heart. I catch myself closing my eyes, drifting into the darkness and hearing my blood pound round my veins, or the gentle clock ticking through the silence, or that little thing you just said accidentally, reverberating.
Don't misunderstand it. I'm not trying to come across as some super-chilled Thought-Jedi who's always got something superior or wise to say; I don't get my identity that way, thank you.
In fact, I've found the opposite of that happening - those around me turn out to be much wiser than I am when I listen to them in the gaps when I'm shtum.
Tonight, as the sun hung low in the summery sky, I walked around the lake near the Intrepids' house. The trees were whispering to each other across the gold-painted water. I clasped my hands behind my back and I strolled.
There were many things I could have been doing, but I had chosen this - simply walking, praying and trying to listen through the gaps. What songs were the birds singing? What language do geese use? Do those tall trees understand? Is there music to the water lapping softly against the stones? What can I learn from all this?
I heard my footsteps too, softly treading the path, balancing on tree roots and brushing against the grass. I heard my breathing and felt my lungs rise and fall with air. I heard the cogs inside my head twist and turn as I considered it all.
I need to learn how to listen better, I think.
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