When the Silent Speaks to Us

It was still the purple darkness of early, early morning. 

I pulled on thick socks, zipped my coat up to my chin, stepped out into the sharp January air. 

These are the day's quiet moments. The time of the bakers and the gas station attendants. 

But today, a little turnoff overlooking the bay was filled with idling cars. 

Hanging over the bay was a moon so low, so full of light, you might think if you stretched enough, you could grab a piece and put it in your pocket to warm your fingers on this dark, purple morning. 

And I understood why the cars were there. It was the same reason I kept on turning my head back to the moon.

Beauty speaks silently to us. And it speaks to the silent parts of us. The ancient parts we are never told how to notice. In part, because they don't communicate in words, only awe and wonderment. 

Yet when we watch clouds taking shape out a train window, stop in our tracks at a bundle of lilies, reread that luminous sentence, show up for a moon setting, we honor those silent, ancient parts of us. 

And if we do it enough, a wisdom starts to whisper through the rest of our life. Perhaps we risk listening, stillness, silence more. We risk answering to something vaster, holier than power, prestige, busyness. 

So, that dark purple morning, we down below looked to the moon up above. We didn't take a piece of it home in our pockets. You don't need that, though, when your spirit has been awed. 

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