The faraway jet moves closer. I stop what I’m doing, look up into the cool October sky. I’m careless, though, and instead I gaze straight into the sun, white turns green against my eyelids.
The jet is over my head, I can tell by the heavy loudness in the air. Smarter now, I cup my hand at my eyebrows and look up again. Too many trees block the way and the jet sounds change from coming to going.
I’m missing it.
But really? I’m 35 years old. I’ve seen jets before. Why am I still compelled to look, drop everything to find the source of the growling roar?
The louder the sound, the more instinctual my attention.
Cloaked in quietness, the vine climbs higher, inches her way across the white picket fence. These introverted buds whisper their growing secrets only to those who stop to listen.
I’m missing it.
This time, it’s true.
The urgent bursts into the room, dramatic and demanding.
The important things whisper, steady and waiting.
I have a lot to learn.
Every weekend in October I’m in a different city. Good things, all good things. But there is stillness of soul and quietness of heart I long to learn. I’ve been blogging now for almost seven years, writing books for three.
There is a time to speak, and I’ve been doing a lot of it.
There is also a time to keep silence.
I want to learn a new rhythm of listening. I desperately need to hear God, to hear the shape of my own desire, to confront lingering fear that still smokes through my insides. I’m writing through the learning for 31 days this month, a small bit each day.
The irony is not lost on me, this incessant talk of listening.
I refuse to feel guilty for the way I learn best. And so I write through the learning this month, the learning of listening and hearing and waiting.
Do you feel the pull to quiet this October?