Thoughts in a Quiet Moment

When I get really quiet, this is what I hear... The hushed whir of the furnace as I set the thermostat to 65 degrees after going downstairs first thing in the morning. The slightly sticky sound of my feet padding across the kitchen floor. The bubbling of boiling water and the glass tea kettle, cabinet doors opening and closing as I find my favorite big blue mug with the waning crescent moon on the side, the rip of the tea bag packet, Earl Grey today. The sound of Poppy purring on my lap - June only makes wuff wuff sounds, ironic since her name is June E. Purr. 

There's the sound of satin as I tie back the curtains with the strips of ribbon that have been safety-pinned on. As the night fades into gray, I hear the start of the morning chorus - first the crows calling in the neighbor's oak tree, then the Canadian geese flying back to Neary's Lagoon, and if I'm lucky I'll hear my favorite hummingbird investigating the purple and white salvia right by the sliding glass door. I always pause when I hear that particular hum and whir, looking for the flash of emerald wings or ruby-red throat. 

When I concentrate, I hear the tinnitus ringing in my ears, but under that, there's always some song, some background score. For some reason I get the theme song from  Big Bang Theory stuck in my head a lot, it morphs into " Now You're just somebody that I Used to Know" or the acapella patty cake cover of Adele's song "Send My Love"."

Sooner or later I hear my husband upstairs, going pee, it always amazes me what a waterfall he releases. Maybe I'll hear the shower, or he'll come downstairs and start his own routine - The grinder is loud but brief, a faint noise of pouring water brings the good smell of fresh coffee into the room. I listen to his dreams, more aware of his rich voice and blue eyes than the actual content, which is often long and complicated. 

At this moment, there's the scratch of the pen, my sighing breath, and an inquisitive sound from the cat who wants more attention now that my journal is taking her place on my lap. I deeply appreciate these quiet, peaceful mornings.

Blessed be.

Empty Cup

This morning as I started together ready to go on a four day retreat up in the Russian River area, I cleaned my office. As they say, nothing gets us more productive than the last minute. I had already cleaned the crystal water glasses I have for my 3 clients a day- 3 of cups, in the tarot, mental anguish resulting in emotional distress, the traditional image of a heart stabbed through with three swords.

But now I took a moment to polish my own glass. Crystal, yes, but different from the others, larger to start - I drink a lot of water during sessions. 4 of cups in the Tarot, overcoming sorrow after grief, a card I identify with as the wounded healer.

There is a tradition in Japan where each night one drinks a glass of water, then puts it face down to indicate, "I am done, everything is complete, I could die at peace tonight." Then, in the morning, hooray! You wake up alive, fill that cup again, and start a brand new day.

So I flipped my cup over. I was done. I was ready. New moon in Scorpio, let me be transformed and begin anew. That was the unexpected gift in the bowl, a giggle from Coyote, a long look in the mirror, a decision to change my story, a decision made long ago now ready to be acted upon. A feeling of peace, a calm anticipation, a reason to get up in the morning as well as reassurance in my mind in the night.

Blessed Be.

Thoughts on Silence

How noisy I am, trying to be quiet. The scrape of the chair, the rattle of a drawer, the shuffling sounds as I dig through my bags. I take my time, like a bird building her nest, putting things away, hanging others up, making room for art supplies.

When I awake at 2:30 am with another hot flash, I think about the retreat facilitator asking about the silence inside. What is the difference between quiet and silence? I notice it easy to share silence with my daughter, while I am often quiet with my husband.

With my daughter, walking together to work, after a few comments about the cats and the weather, we simply walk, we don't talk. Sometimes she's on her phone, texting, connecting, doing what she enjoys, the more virtual the relationship the better sometimes. She is intelligent and romantic, introverted, and has been reluctant at the best to learn how to drive, which is fine by me. Here is where I am generous, if not spoiling, I indulge her capricious whims and rarely ask her to help with housework beyond putting away the dishes. However, we get along, travel well together, give each other space, and she always rolls her eyes at my bad jokes.

My husband and I can be silent, but he has much to say, and I find it easier to be quiet than to respond to his politics and beliefs, an easy way to avoid an argument. And easy not to share my own perusals, simply because I think he will not take me seriously, like times during my Ph.D. program exploring alternative healing. Quiet can be the path of least resistance, but I worry the silence could erode our relationships as it has in my past. As they say, "Silence is consent."

I enjoy putting everything in its place, it's pleasing to me that all will remain just so for these few days, not dealing with other peoples their clutter, no incessant small talk, especially first thing in the morning when I am the most contemplative, the most reflective.

When I think about generosity, I recognize the need to give myself that space - whether I meditate or mess around on the computer playing games, it's my transition time to the day. Chip always wants to talk about dreams. I always want to respond. We are good together that way, but I've had to learn to adapt. I notice it was easier to pay attention to when we only had a few precious days each weekend. His daily neediness is as much of a mixed bag as how I feel about the cats - yes, I love you, but please get off my lap and out of my face. I need this time to compose myself for a day of clients,  let alone friends, daughter, husband, the cats.

As I flutter and mutter to myself after this good putter, I do notice the moments of stillness, the inner silence, the fleeting peace. Then the gerbil in my head starts up again, "...and then I'll get some coffee and then I'll take a shower and then I'll start on the watercolors..." It's not that this is a voice I do not want to listen to, but it is repetitive and unoriginal, it wears me out with its constant need for clatter and nose.

Being in silence helps me hear the birds, the creak of the stairs, the hum of my electric toothbrush that seems so out of place. Thank goodness I didn't bring my vibrator. Even the ubiquitous sound of my electric fan has been silenced. Spacing out through the window, it's easy to hear the cacophony of a sudden burst of honking, the traffic in the distance, tuning more closely into the hum of hummingbird wings, the cry of the raven. I notice the spiderweb threads, vibrating silver in the sunlight. What sounds, what music does it make with the wind? Will I be able to hear it as I go deeper within?

Blessed Be.

Something I will give myself today

Permission. Permission to not turn on my cell phone until I reach Santa Cruz, knowing that there is nothing I could do if there was an emergency, and giving myself the luxury of time and trust that anything can wait.

Permission to sit with the cats and really connect, maybe read my book that I didn't get to this weekend, continuing my retreat and silence.

I will give my time and energy to others when I decide to turn on the computer, answer my emails. I will go and buy candy for the neighborhood kids, and give Chip as many kisses as possible. I will buy Dolores her favorite beer for taking care of the cats, and be surprised at what else I will end up giving.

What I give to the world today is my breath, sending out love and reiki to those who need it, whether or not I know them. I give my poems and writing on my blog, photos on facebook, with no idea who might be touched, who might choose to share what I have witnessed, what I have experienced.

Blessed be.

Sunday morning at the retreat

There is a smell of cinnamon in the kitchen, sleepy silent retreat participants wandering in for their first cup of coffee, I can see the dawn kissing the hills in the distance and I am grateful for a good nights sleep.

I dreamt I was ice skating with Mom, aware that boots needed to be tighter, enjoying the powerful glides as my legs crossed over, the satisfying bite on the ice.

I miss the cats and send them reikitty energy along with my other morning prayers, to Amber, to Scott and Lisa, my parents, Chip. I'm looking forward to reading my book later, no longer feeling pressured to get anything else done, I feel pleasantly relaxed and present.

Two people were meditating in the writing room this morning, as I slipped in to use the adjoining bathroom. I think about Lisa and Henry over in Thailand, what it is to meditate together, sharing energy and breath, sharing silence and stillness. I am grateful for this time to allow Chip and I do develop more comfortable silences, enjoy the quiet times, to sit with full awareness of the pulse of his hand in mine, the ways that whispers work and the beauty of maintaining eye contact.

Blessed be.

In the moment

Actually, it is 7:30 am at the St. Columba retreat house, I am sitting feeling grateful for hot coffee, my shoulders cramped and sore after a poor night's sleep in the freezing cold dorm room, where only after piling on even more blankets into the bunk bed did I find myself in grateful slumber.

I dreamt that I was an antiques fair, and people were taking off in these para-sail like buses. One guy was bummed because his bus had gotten graffittied on overnight. I showed him that the graffiti was just stickers and could peel right off. Then something about going swimming with Lisa and Henry, but that seems vague now.

Chip forgot his shaver and forgot both my jacket and to bring a bra. I guess I'm really on vacation now. There are good smells of breakfast in the room, quiet, hushed whispers of " good morning", our need for politeness and connection overcoming the request for silence. I remember this from before, the quiet thank you's, and how I loved these human lapses.

I am looking forward to going on a walk, working the chinks out of my bones, and already feel the time slipping away, as my monkey mind clamors to read my book, make some drawings, write a hundred love letters today. After looking at the quotes from last night's workshop, I remember to take it slow, to enjoy each micro moment for exactly what it is. I also realize how much I look forward to going to Hawaii for two weeks, the time period seems extremely luxurious, to indulge in nothingness and be a part of the flow. I will remember to take less things to do with me to the islands, but maybe I will remember to take a bra or two...

Are the stars too distant, pick up the pebble that lies at thy feet, and from it learn the all. -Margaret Fuller

Blessed be,

On Retreat

Friday October 28, 2011

We have arrived at St. Columba retreat house in Inverness, near Pt Reyes. I picked Chip up at Google around 2pm, driving 101 through busy San Francisco, a windy tour into the northern seashore. After dropping off our stuff we walked the skinny shoulder of  the road into Inverness to dine at Priscellas on fish tacos and a sumptuous pesto penna pasta. I am aware of our talking, on this silent retreat, aware of the pauses, the moments of quiet, the need to share, our deep caring for each other.

I am deciding whether to bring my iPad into the workshop or to use my handy dandy journal, noticing the tap of my fingertips compared to the scratching of the pen, the incessant auto correct which is wrong in comparison to my own scribblings, an incessant need to edit, to make tidy and perfect.

What is my intention? To write, of course, but what springs forth is to write love letters - to Chip, to Amber, to Z, to Scott in a coma, to my clients, to myself. What are the letters of love? Looking at the Hebrew letters on the sun and moon tarot deck, what are the letters I would like to inscribe on my deck?

I wanted to make tarot templates before this trip, but time eluded me, getting caught up in the tides and eddies of cleaning the house, clearing my desk, last minute phone calls and emails. When do I put myself first? I comfort myself that all is within, and while I  may not be able to draw a perfect circle, I know I can draw upon my own creativity to begin what maybe I see as my great work, my chef d'oevre, even knowing in this moment that the quest is elusive and to enjoy the journey more than the destination.

Five years ago I really began talking about my intention to create a tarot deck, specifically by the time I am 50. Now at 45 I feels my own pressure, get with it, start writing, start sketching. I have momentary jealousies when I see a colleague who has created a deck, who is being published, and I need to remind myself that my time is my own, dedicated to Amber, dedicated to putting food on the table and paying off debts, there is plenty of time, plenty of time.

Recently I sketched out the minor arcana, and we'll see if I dedicate time to creating more fuller versions this weekend, or if my ramblings will take me elsewhere, always a learning experience, always a part of the process.

We are sleeping in bunk beds, a far cry from spooning together, yet I am so grateful to have Chip by my side, willing to enjoy this experience together. I send the cats energy and assurances, mom is just on a big hunt, and I will be back soon. Meanwhile, the retreat has just begun to be...

A treat!

Our first workshop, Chip and I pass each other our writings, I notice all the people from past retreats, those who are new. I'm curious about their stories, in slight awe of my own, from three years ago being in grief and torment over Chip, last year he house sat for me, this time he is by my side. I pulled the card of change a few days ago, and the wheel keeps on turning.

I am slightly chilled, at least my nose and cheeks, I can't believe I forgot to bring my jacket, she who is addicted to the black velvet. Addiction is my other theme this weekend, noticing all the times I have overcome past addictions, from cigarettes to farmville. I enjoyed my Lagunitas IPA at dinner, conscious of being grateful for moderation on this journey,

Blessed be.

Listening as a Spiritual Practice

If I accept every moment as an opportunity to hear messages from the beyond, I notice myself listening to the radio for snippets of wisdom, reading every bumper sticker as a personal communication from god.

    Listening to my clients creates compassion and empathy clearly, but listening to myself somehow is harder. Taking note of my body’s sensations, every emotion allows my creativity to flourish, even in using crayons to doodle my grayest interior, the fierce red flashes of pain in my joints, the hidden truths behind any headache.

    Joan of Arc was killed for listening to the voices in her head, yet she led an army into triumph. Who am I to deny myself triumph when maybe all I heard was a small voice say “don’t take the freeway”?

    The more I listen, the less I speak, wisdom seems to flourish in my soul, giving me guidance, confidence, and peace. Blessed be.

Right Now

 It is Saturday afternoon at a writer's retreat. After the morning session and lunching on the rest of yesterday’s sandwich, I spent most of the day studying Ageless Body, Timeless Wisdom by Deepak Chopra. Friday was spent reading Wild Dogs by Helen Humphries.
    Time is fluid here, as I drink my coffee and switch positions, my aching knees telling me to get up, move, go pee. I feel pleased to have accomplished this simple of goal, of staying focused, rather than driving all over Point Reyes , coloring tarot cards or penning my lover letters.
    I’m looking forward to this writing session, socked feet curled up on the cozy couch, my glasses in place. I’m also looking forward to taking a walk this eve, now that the weather is gentled.
    How often I dwell on the past, how often I write “I’m looking forward...” instead of “I can’t wait.” Because I do have to wait, and much more than the waiting is the feeling of just be present, this here, this now, this moment, this circle of women, this fire’s particular cackle, this witch's’ particular intention.

Listening to Silence

I love listening to Silence. She is a friend of mine. Never a gossip or a chatterbox, we are quite comfortable together. I usually pick her up at the High School after dropping off my teenager, giving her a ride back into town, the sound of the wheels on the freeway and the hum in my head join our quiet chorus.

    We live well together, Silence & I, in the times my daughter is at her other parents’, the times my lover is at his place. We move through the house together, fussing over the angle of a photograph, the feng shui of a chair. With the stealth of the cat, we pad around, tying back the curtains we agree on sunlight and plenty fresh air.

    My lover is jealous of us, feels threatened by Silence, always trying to come between us, trying to fill the gaps with conversation, fearful that I am somehow bored with him and thus courting Silence. But these are the moments when I feel truly at peace, listening to the hum of the tires as the landscape flicks by, the bubbling of morning coffee before we talk about our dreams, the sound of his breath before gently falling asleep.

    We often have lunch with my Dad, who accepts Silence as my chosen companion, and the three of us are relaxed together in the busy cafe. There is no need to impress each other, to discuss the quality of light, the taste of feta and cranberries in our harvest salads, the feel of the plastic tables pretending to be made of wood. We have already reached consensus in sharing our time together, in noticing the lady wearing her slippers with just an arch of an eyebrow.

    Silence has much to say to me. She whispers in my ear, she whispers in my heart, and she holds all of my secrets safe. I listen attentively, a good pupil, always the student, never the master, as I easily live up to my nick name Rambling Rose, trying to validate oh so clumsily in the places where Silence remains simply, sweetly, softly eloquent.


October 2010

next time

next time

bring a sippy cup
a warm shawl
a flash light

bring less stuff
less to do
nap more

October 2010

What My Heart Tells Me

What My Heart Tells Me

    My heart tells me: Thank you, thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for nourishing and exercising me. it makes my job so much easier. I love being your heart. I love bringing all that rich, oxygenated blood up to your brilliant brain and down to your twinkly toes. I love taking away all the carbon dioxide/ the lactic acid, the emotional toxins out of your system. I love being in the center of your body, the center of your being.

    I feel safe in your chest. I feel safe having your ribs gently encircling me, giving me room to breathe, room to grow.

    There are times when I felt battered and bruised, tired and sad, overburdened or just plain stressed. Thank you for taking the time to tend to my wounds, to listen to my woes, to fill me with morsels of hope.

    There are times when I have overjoyed, full of optimism, excitement and enthusiasm. I love being in love and I love the way I expand in your chest when you expand in trust instead of contracting in fear.

    I am your loyal heart. I am always here for you and you can always count on me. Thank you for taking the time to pray with me, to play with me, and above all, thank you for listening to me.

October 2010

Silent Retreat: Day 4

It is a golden moment, late afternoon in late October, listening to the fountain in the rose garden at Mission St. Antonio. I came here to celebrate my 43rd birthday by going on a writer's retreat. To my surprise, it was also a silent retreat. The theme was "cultivating lightheartedness" and in our first meeting we each wrote our intentions down on jaunty yellow paper, to be placed in a basket on the altar. I wrote, "I am here to experience the treat in re-treat". And what a treat it was indeed.

In the tarot, 8 of cups symbolizes a time for emotional withdrawal, a time for retreat. A figure is seen entering a cave to spend some time in reflection. Two of the cups (bonding) has spilled - There is a feeling of bitterness. Six of the cups remain upright (compassion) and through the feelings of sisterly or brotherly love, healing can occur.

When I think of retreat I think of all the ways I take care of myself, rejuvenate myself. Going to the sauna, getting massage, acupuncture and chiropractic care, eating organic. But rarely do I take a weekend off, let alone take vacations.

No cell phone, no internet, no housework, no homework, no cats, no garden, no talking. I have loved the not doing: not making conversation, not processing, not sharing. It has been such a relief to retreat into my on thoughts until they become no thoughts at last.

I'm aware of the element of withdrawal - of drawing into myself, choosing what to share. The way my thoughts would peak and subside, my own obsessive thoughts and addictive emotions, how I have suffered in silence for the past years, not revealing my innermost truths to anyone, not even in some ways to myself. I sat and cried on the bench in the moonlight, then had the hottest, longest shower in years. I gained wisdom in a single instant from one line from a poem, three simple words - "Get over it."

Every moment was golden and delicious, from waking up with the wild turkeys to seeing the tarantula basking in the sun. Deep orange pumpkins lined the adobe hallways, turquoise doors offered privacy, relief, safe haven. On the day they served tuna (which I detest) I just ate potato chips and chocolate cake - Hey, it's my birthday. Indeed, I ate cake everyday, more cake than I have probably eaten in four years.

I made friends with two cats - the only time I broke silence. I figure than since on average I make 80-100 phone calls a week and easily spend half my awake time talking (Sun in the third house), I  probably spend about six hours a day talking, 360 minutes! Here, I've maybe spoken at most for 2 minutes at a time during workshops, maybe 10 minutes all day.

I'm curious as to how I will carry this practice into my daily life over the next few weeks and months. Maybe I'll appreciate being alone more. I notice that lately I don't really like to go out much, and how much I appreciate my quiet housemate. I realize I'm tired on the weekends, and enjoy the silence around the house, notice I'm not playing much music in the car.

I spend the other half of my day listening - to my clients, to my kid, to my inner voices. It's been nice to listen to the fountain, the birds, the murmur of prayers, the scratch of a pen. I've thought about having the kanji tag for silence as a tattoo, but like patience, discover it is something that I already have, deep within me. It's refreshing to not have a explain myself, or to comment on someone else's experiences.

The sun has moved while I have been writing, and I scootch further down the bench - time has passed in a delightful way. Much to my surprise, I have used my laptop only as a clock, choosing to write and sketch in my journals more than type as usual. Of course, then I can sit in the courtyard, rather than isolating myself in my little mission cell.

Our rooms are tiny and I pushed the twin beds together in order to squeeze in a desk and chair. I set a red scarf on the deep windowsill, arranging pomegranates, apples, a banana and some clementines. I hung my blue embroidered bag that holds my tarot cards in place of the wood crucifix, and draped the desk with a deep green shawl covered in blood red roses. My room was simple and complete, tidy and organized, and very, very, pretty.

I slept twelve hours the first night, ten the next. I'd wake before dawn and walk out to greet the sunrise. Interestingly, the soldiers at Fort Hunter Liggett, which surrounds the Mission, were also up, shouting out their marches before the day's artillery practice, which made for an ironic auditory backdrop for a silent retreat.

The bats come out at sunset, swooping through the cloisters to catch the mosquitoes. The two mission cats, both long haired Persians, one jet black, the other with Siamese markings, make friends with each of us, sitting on laps and purring loudly. They are fierce hunters, evidenced by blue jay feathers littering the rose garden paths.

This morning I got up predawn and packed the car in the deep blue shadows. The sun was just barely rising, Venus shining in her brilliance as I walked along the road. I balanced myself on the stones that bordered each side, like any kid would do, reminding my of climbing the cliffs when I went to boarding school in Dover. It took focus and concentration, as the small boulders shifted under my feet. I suddenly heard a yelp, and saw a coyote not far from me. After a few more short yips, it started howling - soon to be joined by not just one or two, but a whole pack. I froze on the road, trying to judge the distance back to the mission, when I spied a small rabbit, also frozen. I noticed it's big ears and wide eyes, at the same time hearing the crunch of footsteps behind me. With that, the coyotes bounded off, leaving me to contemplate my next step in silence...

Did It Speak?

Not in words
Nor in a human voice
There was no tone, no resonance
No vibration on the inner ear
There was no thrumming
Of vocal chords
No whispering
Not even a breath
Of conversation
was heard

But there in the eyes

In the tilt of the neck

In a smile, a frequency received

A vibration of inner knowing

A deeper thrumming

Of heart chords

with every breath

Love spoke

Louder than words

Decomposed

He married me, and I began to decompose. Here was all the bullshit, all the manure, piled up inside of me. Bit by bit, I began to rot—my stomach had ulcers and acid reflux ran wild. Longing to stay intoxicated in this toxic relationship, I began to drink more and more, pickling my brain into more mush. I cared less and less, the flotsam and jetsam of my life like oily seaweed on a Jersey shore.

Finally, only fit to feed the worms and grubs, I lay down on the earth and sobbed out my heart's lament, my deep discontent, my deepest regret. As my body returned to soil, at last I felt grounded again. A seed of hope began to grow in my chest—seed of release, seed of peace—the seed thought quite simply known as divorce.

Exercise 3: The Absence of Play

I notice the absence of play when I mourn the past. A deep darkness, slamming my head against the wall. Heavy in my chest and in my bones. Like permanent low blood sugar. Everything is an effort. My throat is tight and sore, my eyes want to cry. I am missing someone, some time when life did feel joyful and fun. The feeling is of no return. The absence of playfulness is somber, mournful and heavy.

I notice it creeping into my consciousness in small, insidious ways. It's my mom's voice, admonishing me to tone down my jewel tones and paint the walls of my house beige in order for it to rent for the most money. It's my dad's voice, telling me to get "a real job", preferably corporate. Become more conservative, take out that nose ring, cover your tattoos. The absence of play is very beige. Or grey. Greige.

It is ugly, plain, boring, humdrum, the taste of metal file cabinets. It's forgetting to make things beautiful as well as functional. It's the feeling of I have to do it all by myself - all the decisions, all the phone calls, all the chores, all the errands. This feels plain ol' tiring.

The absence of play is the absence of joy.

The absence of life.

Silent Retreat: Day 1

 The quieter you become, the more you can hear. - Baba Ram Dass

Last month I set off on an adventure - a four day writer's retreat, which was also a silent retreat, down at Mission St. Antonio, just south of King City. I left on a Friday after my last client, turning off the radio after Watsonville, setting the proverbial tone for the weekend.

Driving through the golden California hills, here was Steinbeck country - a baking 78 degrees in the valley, cabbages and artichokes filling the fields as I sped down 101. "Bless those hands, bless those backs" I thought, watching the workers, musing on who had picked my food, who had toiled to harvest the grapes so that I could have wine at my table.

I reached my destination after a few short hours, parked the car and meandered off to find my room. After plucking the crucifix from the wall, I made a swift altar to creativity on the windowsill, with various journals, colored pencils, a moon book and a deep red scarf. I added an apple and a pomegranate, invoking the Madonna in my tiny monk's cell.

After unpacking my few belongings, I realized I forgot a few essentials: no jacket, no flash light, and no alarm clock. My cell phone was out of service, so I plugged in my lap top despite no internet access, simply to know the time. Indeed, it was strange not to type all weekend, but to journal by hand instead. I meandered around the Mission, exploring the rose garden, taking note of the warnings for rattle snakes posted in the bathrooms.

We had a delicious dinner, simple and filling, seventeen women in complete silence. The crunch of the fresh bread, the scrape of a chair as someone refilled their ice tea, the dull clink of silverware on the plastic bowls as we polished off the hearty pumpkin soup that had been provided.

Afterward, we had our first workshop, our 3 minutes of speech for the day, briefly introducing ourselves and setting our intentions for the retreat. As we sat and meditated before our first writing exercises, I was aware of the sound of crickets, the rustle of paper, the closing door, a distant bell ringing. The theme for the weekend was "Cultivating Lightheartedness."

Walking back to my room, I had to laugh at myself - the moment I saw a cat I broke silence, calling softly to the long haired Siamese - my first thought was how to get it to sleep with me. Over the next few days we became friends, along with her black haired sister. Fierce hunters, these two, soon bird feathers graced my altar, the sacrificial remains of the day.

I was pleasantly surprised by how much I was already enjoying the silence - I felt a deep peace and stillness, a deep relief at not having to entertain or amuse, to counsel or comment. The relief at just being able to eat without interruption, without conversation. I smiled at everyone, and wonder what brought them here...

There is a voice within, that no one, not even you has ever heard. Give yourself the opportunity of silence and begin to develop your listening in order to hear, deep within yourself, the music of your own spirit. - John O'Donohue