In the Quiet

The quiet that comes after lots of deep presence, and precious time is almost unbearable.

I remember years ago when my beloved Sidney, a loyal companion for about thirteen years, was put to sleep. The first time I walked through the door without her, the quiet was so thick I could barely make my way through it. My mind played tricks on me as I heard her little collar jingle for weeks after this…filling the quiet with her memory and a sound that had become part of my space (our space), perhaps even one that I had begun to take for granted.

I love the quiet. I love stillness.

But the contrast of a certain little voice with a constant “Auntie Pat” chorus for many days recently, and then nothing - is excruciating.

you came
in the soft light of dawn
as a quiet snow fell,
teaching me already
the brilliance
of letting go.
//a precious jewel of snow - Emory Hall

The constant chatter when we are together fills me; her proud announcements of bodily functions, her never-ending expression of whims and desires, her calling me close and vying for attention, presence and witnessing, and the singing…oh my goodness the singing which has just begun and doesn’t stop, it is everything.

We’ve been singing together since she was born, mostly me singing to her but now she sings everything.

Her papa tells me she hasn’t spoken to anyone about her mama’s death, and this breaks my heart - but she’s singing.

There is a voice
that doesn’t use words.
Listen. - Rumi

As the house with great animation, both in sound and all of the whimsical and decadent physical things strewn about was being neatly packed up into her little pink Minnie suitcase in preparation for the handoff, I began (as I always do) to notice the grief setting in…already taking me to a future place.

The ache. A deep, deep ache.

And just like that, the quiet returned. ‘Just’ the two of us instead of three, in deep stillness with no little voice or constant needs to attend to. A quiet full of teachings…

I decided to sit with this teacher in the quiet this week, instead of pushing it aside or filling it with placated plans or cunning ego actions, I decided to “become friends with the silence” as Elena Brower writes in her poem “rare moments.”

What is the meaning of my life?

What is my deep attachment to this child sourced in?

Why didn’t I become a mother?

Is there a secret desire connected to my joy in this little energy, her voice, her love, her presence?

Am I attending to the grief I feel around the loss of my sister?

Does this child know that I love her this deeply?

What is God telling me?

And then I take a deep breath. And, I feel it all. I make room for radical acceptance without holding onto any of it. I pray. I cry. I feel into my heart with a deep knowing that it is all going to be okay, that it is all divine.

This ache in my heart, is holy…