While folding laundry I hear birdsong and look out the window to see a bird perched on a fencepost, singing its heart out. Time stands still as the song fills me, spills over – I … am … the bird, the song, the half-folded towel in my hands.
Things I used to do, make sure got done, I no longer do … they don’t … get done. Papers pile up on the surface of a desk, dishes linger in the sink, unwashed, books that once held my interest remain half-read on the nightstand. I sit for long stretches of time in silence. If I was asked to describe what I am doing I might say, “Nothing.”
My heart contracts with grief as some past event, long buried, is brought into conscious awareness. Tears overflow as the pain burns a hole right through me – and yet there is no flinching. There is absolute amazement that that particular burden was carried all these years – and yet, it was. Now it has been set down and there is a sense of relief.
Utter chaos may reign within – or without – and yet, there is calm. Stillness. A sense of being ‘centered’. It is inexplicable. I don’t care that I could not for the life of me explain it to my own satisfaction, nor probably to anyone else’s.
Nothing seems very important. Just … this.