Silence and Solitude

No TV. No music. The silence of indoors. Barely discernible noises from outside.

You wouldn’t know what I’m typing just by listening to me type, yet each key on my keyboard has its own unique sound. Each word is an old, familiar clickety-clackety pattern, but almost every sentence or paragraph is a new composition, a new song.

Through a window, I see a squirrel climbing the elm tree. (Perhaps I have typed that little song before.)

The tick of the mantel clock sets the pace of my thoughts. (But not that one.)

This afternoon I find myself in a place of silence and solitude.

Not meditation, exactly, although I am listening to my breathing and acknowledging the air with which I share the room, and through which we all move, like fish in water.

Not prayer, exactly, although each breath of that air is a gift that reminds me of God’s presence around me, and within me.

Moments of peace can be elusive. My own desires for entertainment and accomplishment tend to keep them out of reach; at my age, it’s hard to stop weighing my life against the relentless march of time.

But now I sit here in a little bubble of peace, savoring the quiet (of my home, of my mind) and preparing to stir things up again. That should be easy because as soon as I stand up, no matter how carefully, Zuzu (across the room in her dog bed) will get startled and start barking at me.