Heading out toward the gym last night, I was struck again by the relative silence of my complex. It's a deep quiet, just a hit of it, nestled into the center of the mild, suburban noise. A heart of stillness, and the rustle of trees--pine, mostly. A magic cupboard waiting in the corner of the room. It feeds my soul, this silence, makes my breath deeper and more effective. Reminds me of who I am and why I am here. As I walk I'm reminded of the yearly trips to my father's hometown (that's the cover of the book he wrote about his town). Green, cobblestoned, high on a plain in the middle of nowhere. The silence was something to get used to during those first couple of days into our vacations. It buzzed in my ears at night, nearly as noisy as the 405 in its own right. The mosquitoes that would devour my arms and legs buzzed loudly, but compared to the silence they were a birthday candle in a vast underground cavern. By the second night I'd be more or less acclimated. The stillness became a warm, inviting shape rather than a crevasse waiting for me to stumble. Peace, after all.
I wait. One of these days it will become the rule, rather than the exception.