Quiet, a solitude from sound, the absence of it a precious boon at times.
Moments of stillness that allow for held breath to escape, for tight lungs and chest to slowly expand, breathing slowly deeper until Calm settles in with its companion Peace.
There is a sound to “quiet.”
It’s the sound of steam rising with sensual ease from a fresh cup of tea on an early morning.
It’s the sound of a gentle kiss of wind sliding through the branches above like a stream would wind between roots and across moss-covered rocks below.
It’s the sound of dust motes drifting lazily through a sunbeam as a cat stretches luxuriously in the wash of golden light pooling on a hardwood floor.
Quiet is the gurgling pop and clank of an old air conditioner on a hot, summer afternoon as it sighs and pings and hums its way through a half-remembered tune it once knew, long ago.
Quiet is that first moment of wakefulness when the mind gently re-acquaints itself with reality after an all-too brief visit to the realm of dreams, the pillow still singing its siren song of somnolence, drawing you back into sleep’s sweet embrace.
Quiet is the tympanic syncopation of raindrops being scattered lavishly over eager leaves, the happy splash and gurgle and tink and clinkle of captured drops merrily dancing their way down along the downspout.
Quiet is the smell of fresh-baked bread and the feel of melted butter on fingertips, sweet, stolen morsels savored in secret before anyone else is awake.
These times of Quiet are a gift we give ourselves. They are precious, fleeting, and should be zealously guarded, lest they be too often stolen away by the demands of our days.
~ Steven Berven
