something here in this silence

There is something here in this silence. At last. I have felt not such presence here in this place before. Or has it merely been so long I’ve forgotten. This morning, there is space for my heart to breathe, and so for my eyes to see. This small room is quite quiet, the first in some time. How I yearn for the return of this spaciousness, this silence, to my days. This emptiness feels full, palpably so, such that my heart wants to reach out and touch it, be received by it. This is a fullness that does not overwhelm, a fullness that fills stead of draining. Or perhaps it drains what is necessary to be drained, receiving the pollution from too much, over-production, and replacing it, refilling me with something pure. 

In the corner opposite from me, the fountain bubbles perpetually, beneath her, the peace of the sitting one. Is she a mirror, in that corner or a negative image, the yin to my yang. When I mentioned to a friend that I like to think of myself as rather centered and calm, she covered her smile with her hand, not trying to hide it really, but rather I think again she was mirroring what she saw in me. The humor of it. The truth that the surface belies what lies beneath. And so what of that fountain bubbling in the corner? No lies there, I think. It brings to the surface what lies beneath its pile of rocks, stead of letting it lie inhibited and suppressed, stagnant,…. and so fills it with oxygen, freshens it so that even the cat can drink from it.

And she, who sits beneath in her stony silence, is just that, a stone. I suppose it is easy to be serene when you are a stone. What feelings has she got coursing through her veins, pressing at the fountain pump that is her heart, which need be brought to the surface for air? Perhaps that is why she has grown fat, all that sitting, all that suppressing, her fat a protection from the bombardment within and without. Yet she looks so peaceful. Could she be real?

I long for the feeling I see in her face.

Is that a desire to deny the whole of me? Is that to live a partial, fragmented life?

I wonder,  does the desire to be more-than-human make us less-than-human?


The opening is at times small through which something life-giving might arise. A word. An image. A child. It bubbles up and spills o’er the rock and moistens me. My colors at once brought back to life.


Even as she sits serenely beneath, underground, with her knowing that all is well.

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