I’ve been up since four a.m., thoughts of my “should be doings” clamoring for real estate in my brain. But none of it has taken root because my gaze keeps wandering out the window. A window framed by bowing limbs of ornately shaped maple leaves. Such pretty silhouettes.
At this time of morning, the gray is only interrupted by a thin line of land and trees at the other end of the lake. There is a new, narrow strip of sand that a sudden, violent storm thrust some eighty feet from this side of the shore. It blocks the current now, creating a calm on the inside water’s surface so absolute it has become a living mirror.
But there is a whole world under that clear reflection. Churning, cycling, dying and renewing.
As the sky begins to tint with muted purples and pinks, the smaller birds begin their morning gossip, and still I linger at the window.
I feel on the cusp, but I’m not yet ready to tumble over. There is some peace here. Gather it, says a voice inside. Might be a while before you find it again.
So, I listen. I listen. And let my footsteps lead me outside – to the birds, the crisp morning air, the water – away from the work that will be waiting for me when I return.
And it is good.
How do you listen for your inner wisdom?