There is a contemplative
in all of us,
but still alive,
who craves quiet
enjoyment of the Now,
and longs to touch
garment of silence
Alan P. Tory
I move around the house, breathing air rich with potential. My thoughts slow, not in lassitude, but with quiet peace that opens me to the broad expanse of today. I look around, see sunlight painting patterns on the fir flooring, Milo basking on the hearth, the meandering stream sparkling through the woods. Birds sing from time to time, but not often; I hear the near stillness of a winter day.
Time alone, solitude-- words of invitation to step out and in. Out of the bustle and pressure of rushing toward the future, into the richness of the present moment. My tattered soul longs for, yet resists the quiet invitation, clinging anxiously to the demands of the urgent, even while reaching for the Now.
The present gently envelops me; my eyes open to the small and the large that I’ve been missing in the rush. Fingers relax, breathing slows and deepens, colors catch and hold my eye, smiles dance across my face…
This hour passes timelessly, I in concert with it. Afterward, my soul once again whole, I look to the future, now filled with peace and joy.