Silence is a difficult practice. Stillness brings a gathering storm of ideas and ideas and ideas, the constant firing of synaptic lightening. The truth is, I am not well practiced in the art of peace.
There are messages to decipher in those first quiet moments.
The friend whose wife used to shatter and puddle like a fallen rain drop, she freezes now, blows away, gathers with the rest of the used-up wives in the middle of the snow drift. Truth is, Amber’s been part of that snow drift but there is grace for that too. There are always second chances.
It’s almost spring now, I think, and I am thankful for the rain again. The surprise lilies have come up early, gambling against an April frost. Not the azaleas, though. They are more reserved. They’ve weathered more than a few Arkansas winters and they know that it’s best to be patient.
Occupation comes like a flood, too. The endless checklist of revolving perpetuity. We toil under the sun day after day, and to what end?
These thoughts advance like sheets of rain across a Kansas plain. But dear God, these are not the thoughts of the quieted spirit.
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