Sorrow is quiet and soft.
How strange, that during the saddest times, the quiet is the loudest voice of all.
Tonight, I send my voice into the stillness.
To honour the love and the sorrow that lingers when we lose our most precious hearts.
Quiet, the place where unconditional love floats free.
Peace. Our soft and gentle, forever home.
Peace.
It’s soft and it’s cool.
It’s free and it’s flowing.
And quiet. (Good heavens it’s quiet. I close my eyes for that one. Truly. I close my eyes.)
Peace.
It lives in the candle beside me; within this flame, still and perfect.
I drink tea alone—peace lives there.
And the wind, swaying green beyond the window: it stops me as I wander.
It brings me home.
Peace is the language that brings me home.
Peace.
It is such a beautiful thing.
And it’s funny. How long it has taken me to see its worth.
That I’ve been looking for it. That, always, it’s been mine.
If only I’d known that I needed it.
I needed it.
Peace. I need it, still.
Some days,
I take a deep breath
and ask the world to soften.
The world never does soften.
So I fall behind its wind,
and I find my own
peace.
I am here in the quiet, knowing I am home.
I am the same, in this place, as the windy trees
and the sunset that melts across the bay.
This quiet.
It is the porcelain wail of a newborn child, it is the aching
of a freshly broken heart.
I know it well.
I know this place of quiet so well.
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