A poem
She slips off her shoes at the door,
pads softly into the hallway.
Shallow breaths, mingling with the stillness.
releasing a languid exhale
she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
The ticking of the clock seems overwhelming now,
counting out the rarity of its holy silence.
She moves toward the sound,
muffling it with her palm.
Better.
From this room, she can hear…nothing.
No shrill voices, no pounding footsteps,
no background hum of electronic friends and distractions.
Just…stillness.
She settles into the chair,
unfurling like the tongue of an emerged butterfly,
witnesses herself breathe in…
…breathe out…
How long has it been since she simply…was?
Since she held awareness uncluttered,
emptied of plans and demands
and the cacophony of roles?
An eternity, or no time at all,
there is no delineation in solitude,
no boundary between exhale and inhale,
inhalation and…
…intermission.
She registers the weight of her bones,
the rise and fall of her abdomen,
the whisper of consciousness anchored solely to this..
…moment.
Outside, the world’s noise may resume,
dogs, traffic, planes, but in here,
there is only…
…quiet.
It swaddles her like spun silk,
a private hollowness to be known,
to be listened to, to be…
…savoured.
