Gentler still

The pollen count has been pretty high lately, leaving me a little sniffly and sneezy this week. I've honestly barely noticed it there's been so much other stuff going on . . . until today. The appearance of allergies has turned into the appearance of a cold, and my head feels so stuffy I can barely think. The funny thing is, all of my messages for today were to just be, not to act, to allow and sit in the silence, to be receptive and let the universe do the work. Unfortunately, my body must have thought I wouldn't listen to these messages and so it created something that would force me into stillness. I have to laugh because this is gentler than many of my other recent messages, so it would appear the "Gently, please!" message has gotten across. Next up: recalibrating my body's idea of what "gently" means.

I'd like to share a favorite passage of Annie Dillard's originally from her book Teaching a Stone to Talk, although I found this excerpt in Life Prayers:

At a certain point you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world, Now I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait, listening. After a time you hear it: there is nothing there. There is nothing but those things only, those created objects, discrete, growing or holding, or swaying, being rained on or raining, held, flooding or ebbing, standing, or spread. You feel the world's word as a tension, a hum, a single chorused note everywhere the same. This is it: this hum is the silence . . .

The silence is all there is. It is the alpha and the omega. It is God's brooding over the face of the waters; it is the blended note of the ten thousand things, the whine of wings. You take a step in the right direction to pray to this silence, and even to address the prayer to "World." Distinctions blur. Quit your tents. Pray without ceasing.

Photo: "gentle curve," originally uploaded by yugoQ