Be Still Small Voice

Occasionally a strong sense of stillness washes over me. It's like I've opened a window to something and am hearing things more clearly in the silence.

I remember the last time this happened, I was looking around the room I was in. All the objects were bringing back memories, like mismatched pieces of jigsaw puzzles, from different periods of my life. The old lantern slides from my childhood, my father's academic and professional certificates rolled up and tied with green ribbon, representing everything from the war to his passion for chemistry, books and DVDs different members of my family have brought into the house through the years. Games stacked up, with laughter folded into the boards inside. Small gifts from friends, a wedding present in a frame on the wall, a tapestry stitched by my mother, the piano somehow still reverberating from all the tunes played on it. A camping stove stowed under the desk, with a few blades of dried grass from Devon still stuck to it.

It felt like every sense was jangling and waiting to be called upon in some way. Like great poetry should flow from my pen, or a masterpiece from a paintbrush. I was either about to cry forever, or feel a great weight lifted from my shoulders.

Moments like this remind me that we are functioning on different levels, one part of us is moving along the conveyor belt of life, getting up, getting dressed, going to work and seeing to hum-drummery, but that there is also a river flowing through us all the time.

Occasionally you get to put your hands in the water and take a sip.