Each Thursday, join me for my once a week practice, Through the Glass Backwards. The title of this series came from my former commute into work, when I took the light rail downtown. Even though I tend to get motion sick easily, I usually ended up facing backwards, watching as the city slipped by. Now that I work from home, these vignettes will be a 200 word glimpse of things I see as the world outside me lives its life, and I am fortunate enough to see, but not necessarily from the light rail window.
I’m curled up, snug as a bug. I should be tired. A full day with a long walk, listening to a lecture that feeds my brain and my heart. Perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps I’m working closer to the excited edge of this pendulum and my usual bedtime ritual of teeth brushing, a glass of water, and a half hour of reading did not do its normal magic.
So, here I am, writing about the night silence of a city apartment building, hearing the guinea pigs chomp on their hay, the upstairs neighbors moving across hardwood floors. I even hear the motor of the ceiling fan, the buzz of the refrigerator. If I listen closely enough, I think I’m hoping to hear my heart, hear what it longs to say, where it longs to be understood. I feel my shoulders relax as I write words out, as I understand that there is much this heart and body carries every day.
How do we honor what we carry? How do our ears grow sensitive enough in the noisy silence? How do we practice growing our hearts bigger, as there is fear and anxiety hat mounts when new things come our way?