The dark is here. I am feeling it more this winter than I have in the past and I am not sure why.
It feels like a waiting.
Like a hoping.
Like a wanting.
The phoebe sits on her nest
hour after hour,
day after day,
waiting for life to burst out
from under her warmth.
Can I weave a nest for silence,
weave it of listening,
Listening,
layer upon layer?
But one must first become small,
Nothing but a presence,
Attentive as a nesting bird,
Proffering no slightest wish,
no tendril of a wish
board anything that might happen,
or be given,
only the warm, faithful waiting,
contained in one's smallness.
Beyond the question, the silence.
Before the answer, the silence.
May Sarton
May says it best.
As the days continue to grow shorter, and as the darkness continues to spread its inky self across the hours, it is comforting - perhaps simply imperative - to be small.
To be warm.
To faithfully wait.
To embrace the silence.
For life will burst out…
Oh yes.
Oh yes.
Tam
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