When I get quiet, when I meet the quiet already here, it seems there is no end to the beauty of it
I hear a small plane crawling across the sky over the city, kind of scratching through the air. Now and then dogs bark. Something is moving in the grass outside the window – I hear a light scuffle.
Then I notice these sounds have stopped. Their absence is peaceful.
Because the room is on the west side of the house, the morning light is nice, restful, easy on the eye. The early daylight is a little like the gloaming over a Scottish loch on a summer evening, very late in the day. Clear but soft, muted. Or maybe like being underwater in a tidal pool by the sea, just before the sun rises, when the light is even and crepuscular.
Nothing special going on.
All I have to do is sit here and become part of it.
Notice that I am part of it already.
The wall in front, a rough surface riddled with little shadows, also has the same deep restful presence of the daylight. We’re both sitting, wall and I, in this tank of shade called a room.
When I get quiet, when I meet the quiet already here, it seems there is no end to the beauty of it. However deep we sink into this beauty, it only gets deeper.