I go inside and shut the window. The lamp is brought and I’m told good night. And my voice contentedly says good night. May this be my life, now and always: The day bright with sunshine, or gentle with rain, Or stormy as if the world were ending, The evening gentle and my eyes attentive To the people passing by my window, With my last friendly gaze going to the peaceful trees, And then, window shut and the lamp lit, Without reading or sleeping and thinking of nothing, To feel life flowing through me like a river between its banks, And outside a great silence like a god who is sleeping.
~ Fernando Pessoa writing as Alberto Caeiro in “The Keeper of Sheep”
To be still is to wait.
Which has a weight.
Which can feel uncomfortable.
Seems like we all complain about waiting.
When we’re waiting on what’s next.
Which is why we Master in Business.
Which is specializing in staying busy.
So we can do what’s next.
Even though there is no next.
So we never stop trying to reach
A place that does not exist.
Which looks a lot like exit.
A way out.
Of being here.
Which is waiting.
Which is sitting still.
“Are you still sitting? Get up and go do something!”
Surely that wil feel less like weight.
“That was so moving.”
Getting closer to what is next.
The next feeling that isn’t heavy.
To be here.
If only we could just be
A little more brave
In the face of fear
Face your fear.
We’d finally see.
The place to be.
Is right here.
Do you hear?
Listen up or listen down.
Am I right?
Ah permission to be.
I may be.
“Ever hugged a tree? Come on, admit it. I have. One day in distress, I hugged a tree. To my amazement, it did not move or run away. It stayed in place, sturdy, strong, abiding, and true. I guess you could say the tree hugged me.”
Everyone you see, you say to them,
Of course you do not do this out loud;
Someone would call the cops.
Still though, think about this,
This great pull in us
Why not become the one
Who lives with a full moon in each eye
That is always saying,
With that sweet moon language,
What every other eye in this world
Is dying to Hear.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes.
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
What we need is here
Poem by Wendell Berry
Painting by Ernst Ferdinand, Silent Christmas (Meissen in Winter), 1854
The hill pasture, an open place among the trees,
tilts into the valley. The clovers and tall grasses
are in bloom. Along the foot of the hill
dark floodwater moves down the river.
The sun sets. Ahead of nightfall the birds sing.
I have climbed up to water the horses
and now sit and rest, high on the hillside,
letting the day gather and pass. Below me
cattle graze out across the wide fields of the bottomlands,
slow and preoccupied as stars. In this world
men are making plans, wearing themselves out,
spending their lives, in order to kill each other.