A still, small voice was heard.
When I was a child, I’d sit on the floor in a sun-lit patch on the screened back porch and play. I remember the warmth of the rays, a leafy view out the window, but most of all the quiet. Occasionally, a breeze would drift through and I could hear the air pulsing in my ears.
Now, I have to intentionally find that stillness, a place where I can listen to nature, feel my heart, sense my aliveness. Sometimes, at night, when appliances are off and windows are closed, it is so quiet I feel transported back to that innocent time. A time when I didn’t realize how precious quiet was or how seldom I would find it and how purposeful I’d have to be to notice it.
With practice, I am finding stillness in snatches. Between bites of my cereal, yanks on the weeds, steps on the pavement, I take a refreshing moment to just be. When I return, the ensuing cacophony sounds more in tune and less jarring.