To hear

Thank you, my friend (you know who you are), for the lovely green, bamboo imprinted batik with this quotation from Le Guin's Earthsea Trilogy. A worthy reminder.

To hear,

   one must be silent.

-Ursula Le Guin

I know this

Until I forget.

I am prone

To forgetting,

Until I remember again.

This seems the way

It goes:

Knowing

Forgetting

Only to remember again.

I build buffers of silence

So I can hear.

I stop speaking

So I can hear,

Maybe then

I speak.

If I remember.

Arriving early

I am learning new ways to navigate things like Convention.  Arriving early and establishing a nest is a new thing for me. It feels pretty good.

I arrived so early

The lobby was empty;

I reveled in the silence,

The sheer space

Before the fullness

Tomorrow.

Tonight I establish a nest

To return to

From the fullness

When the respite

Calls me.

Then and only after that

I will return

To the fullness.

At the pastors' prayer breakfast

Good company this morning at the Wheaton College Pastors' Prayer Breakfast. I knew the liturgy from past experience. 

I made my way

Through the breakfast line

Found a table

With the glorious

Acappella trio:

They opened and closed the prayer

In voices which blended

Beyond any needed words.

In their first hymn

I decided to treat the gathering

As a silent meeting.

Others would offer long lists

Of prayers

Telling God

Who He was,

What He might do.

I was moved to speak

At the end.

Sometimes I wonder if God

Can hear our hearts

Over all the ways

We fill the air.

Something else

After my first double seizure I introduced my beloved to my therapist, thinking I had no idea what was next, and perhaps the two of them might need to interact if this seizure-thing moved on to something else. What was this something else, you might ask? I had no idea. I still have no idea. That's what makes it a something else.

When I sit with you

I figure I must make the most

Of the money I am paying.

This seems to mean

I must fill the air

With the most words possible,

To get the most

Out of our fifty-five minutes.

This morning I wonder

About my beloved.

He says he would like to sit

In a corner of your office

Perhaps even on the floor

Watch the light

Come through the windows

Drink in the possible

Fifty-five minute stop

To the usual

Before moving on

To the next thing.

Healing prayer

This morning reminded me of Quaker meeting, particularly the silent space in the middle meant to provide room for healing prayer.  Even though no one went forward.  Still... there was healing there.

No one went forward

For healing prayer today.

We all knelt in place

Listened to the cello.

Three priests stood at the altar rail

With oil for anointing.

They were ready.

The lessons were about waiting

For Jesus to return.

Something about

The absence of words

The cello

The waiting

In the middle of the service;

Something about the silence space

In the middle

Spoke to me of healing

Even though no one went forward

But instead

Knelt in place.

No words

Were necessary.

NPR

Back to driving and NPR.

Links in the chain.

I am back to driving.

I realize I only listen to NPR

When I drive.

When I was being driven

By my beloved

We talked.

When I was being driven

By my daughter

Music prevailed.

Links in the chain.

Now that I can drive again,

I am more connected

To the world at large

Through NPR.

I know.

I could have listened

At home

But at home silence

And the birds

Ran the day.

I had more respite

This summer

Than ever before.

And now,

It seems it’s time

For driving

And NPR

Once again.

Links in the chain.

48 hours

Whatever will you do? they ask me.  No problem here.

It’s me and the cat

The turtle and the blue jays

Two cars in the driveway

At least 48 hours to do

Whatever the heck I want

The gift of time alone

Silence if I wish or

Whatever music beckons

An ear

A possible haircut

My tastes are simple

Me and the cat

The turtle and the blue jays

Two cars

48 hours.

Hints of rain

Saturday morning.  I arise later than usual but everyone else is still asleep.  I love such times: quiet, unplanned, uncluttered.  I love the fact that after we cleaned out the guest room, the cat has claimed it for his own, head on the pillows, snoring.  I love being able to reflect on the week, in quiet.  Next week will bring what it will.  For now it is quiet inside, with potential for rain outside.

The house is silent.

All are sound asleep.

Even the cat is snoring

On the bed he has claimed

In the guest room.

The weather?

Overcast

With hints of rain,

Certainly past,

But rain possibly

Yet to come.

I welcome such days

Unfilled with brightness,

Noise;

Unplanned

For the time being.

Plans will come

Soon enough.

I pull together the pieces

From last week:

The trip to the terminal moraine

And back;

Clearing the house

For the cleaning lady

To come

On Friday.

The house is silent

With clean bathrooms and kitchen

Dusted and vacuumed

Silent and clean

For now.

Outside?

Hints of rain past

And yet to come.

Still Still Still

I thought to visit another church this Sunday.  The one I had chosen has its annual meeting.  No.  Then I considered a church I could walk to from my home.  I started thinking about the conversations we could have, and wanted to make sure I had my business cards.  Again... no.  Then I remembered silent Quaker meeting.  I will go there.  No one may say a word, but at the very least we will all listen together.

This Sunday I will go

To Quaker meeting.

No one will know me there.

Still

Still

Still

We will all listen

For the same thing

Illumined by the same Light.

Still

Still

Still

I know God will be there

In the midst of us.

No matter

If anything is spoken

At all.

Still

Still

Still.

Good Friday

Perhaps this Good Friday calls for listening to the echo of no words.  This year I have numerous opportunities to listen to what people say about the Passion: The Seven Last Words, reflections on each step along the Way to the cross, a sermon after Jesus dies.  Perhaps this year silence is called for.

I may sit silent.

Maybe even write a check

For the quiet hour.