It is deliciously quiet here in my house. On this Sunday morning I am alone for a few hours and everything is still. My friendly wind chimes are still asleep and the light spilling in from my bedroom window is soft and subtle. There is no dew on the ground and I notice how yellow and brittle the grass appears.
It’s been a hard winter, even here in the South. My orange tree has died. And my beloved and sometimes fickle bougainvilleas may have seen their last winter here, though they cling, brown and spent, to the weathered fence in my backyard.
Everything is still and quiet except for the distant sound of chirping. Lately, birds have randomly appeared in my backyard pecking away at the dirt near my bougainvilleas. My sweetheart put birdfeed on a tray to seduce hungry birds, but the jealous wind had other ideas, and pitched it over, and into the earth.
Earlier in the week I watched a pair of cardinals gather seed and eat.
Later that day, a second group of birds arrived and I wondered how quickly word had spread about the hoedown in my backyard.
Sometimes, it is the little things that get my attention. Maybe it’s because the older I get, the more I appreciate a slower pace. The truth is, I don’t like to be hurried, in traffic, in decision making, in conversation. I like to reflect, and feel my way into things. Even my blogs.
It makes me feel more appreciative, more relaxed, more in tune with my world.
Working five days a week and trying to keep up with life’s little demands: a dishwasher that always needs to be fed, a mortgage payment, the latest Netflix releases, while still maintaining family and personal relationships, takes stamina. I think it’s important to take time to experience ourselves. To slow down, get quiet, and listen to what our soul is trying to tell us.
At least it is for me. It’s a testimony to us women, how well we juggle. Until we can’t, that is. For instance, even as I write this, I notice I am experiencing an ocular migraine. I get them every now and again, and thankfully they appear without any pain. But when they come, they assault my eyes, and make my vision cloudy and erratic for about a 15-minute spell. And I wonder, as I wonder about all things that get my attention, what they are trying to tell me.
And while I wait for the fuzziness to disappear, I know with the grace of clarity that I am fortunate to be blanketed by quiet this Sunday morning, to listen to the birds and to the messages my body and soul are sending.