Sometimes In the Stillness

Sometimes in the Stillness

It's in those hushed moments, when the clock has paused

or seems to have given up ticking altogether,

and the cat has at last found a permanent place in the sun

on the carpet—

that if we sit still, swaddled in an afghan of quiet,

and pay a bit more attention than usual,

we might detect a faint murmur,

like the sound of a distant crowd 

This is not the refrigerator's hum or a creak in the floorboards,

but something that resides more internally, 

where the hinges of the heart quietly open and close.

It's as if this whisper is an understudy who's learned all the lines

by heart, ready to fill in with a clear voice—

handing out little booster shots of fortitude

to the wobbly knees of our weakness, 

offering a sturdy arm to fear, shaking as it is,

and spinning strands of dawn's light into a wreath

to crown the furrowed brow of despair.

Odd, isn't it, how in the midst of such silence

our own heart begins to converse,

how in listening we unearth the seeds of a strength

we never knew were buried there,

how in the wilderness of nothing being said,

a path of words can suddenly emerge,

tracing a trail of comfort through the tall, swaying grass of our thoughts. 

So, next time the world dials down its volume

and you find yourself submerged in the sea of stillness,

remember to lean in—really close—to your own heartbeat,

and listen, just listen.