We still hear the train’s whistle blow. After spending four years just to the side of the railroad tracks, we’re out here in Portland now, no tracks in sight, but the stillness will occasionally carry the soft, faraway sound of the train. At first I rolled my eyes. Can’t get rid of it, even if we move 958 miles away. But now it endears.
It feels like continuity.
The constant hum from HWY 101 is gone, replaced by cricket songs and sometimes the patter of rain on the tin roof over the deck. But there’s an overall feeling of silence.
Nature provides an overlay, to the deep stillness that we’ve found ourselves in, despite being planted in the corner of the city.
It makes me pause… often… mid-thought or mid-sentence, to listen.
Until the stillness lures out the stillness inside me.
The one that I can’t always find while I’m twirling around thinking five thousand half thoughts at a time and starting half a dozen tasks, most of which I forget about before they’re complete.
I like calling forth this stillness.
And I like that nature is conspiring with me to do it.
Sending me insect’s chatter and a tin roof tête-à-tête to remind me in a beautiful and gentle way to pay attention. To Pause.
To Listen… to whatever is being quietly offered up that might otherwise be missed while we are all rushing around being so very busy and important.