This morning I awaken to a softer world. Snow lands in layered pillows and our usual noise is quieted, hushed by a thick layer of white. The sky keeps falling down, the street is buried, there are rumors of power outages, and the clinic is closed. The initial anxiety of interruption gives way to quiet joy and I am softer too. The spirit rests in this muffled stillness.
“A life without a lonely place, that is, a life without a quiet center,” says Henri Nouwen, “easily becomes destructive.”
When I slow to listen, I see how this is true. How quick I am to lay my worth in all the things I do. So that when productivity comes to a screeching halt I am filled with anxiety. Surely there is something I can do to fill this quiet place.
But God whispers to me, “Be still.”
And more emphatically, “BE.”
I feel the weight of Presence and it fills me with light. This is cause for celebration—my Beloved has been waiting for me all this time. So I don my boots and wade through the train of winter’s gown, stand under a heavily cloaked Maple and stare up into the white sky falling down. Bonnie watches from the window as I frame up the lion.
I find my quiet center through the lens and this lonely place, this being—it is prayer.