How to approach quietness

Let yourself be loud, be loud and busy and jumpy and unsettled.  Let yourself fizz and pop and bubble.  Let the sparks of adrenaline light a bonfire. Let the clouds and rain of drama storm across your fields. Let the din of the living resound without apology or restraint.

And when the flames turn to embers, when the sky clears, when the echoes stop ringing, start to draw away from the flitter, flutter, chitter, chatter.  Take slipper soft steps from centrestage and find a seat in the darker recesses of the auditorium.  While watching the bright acts unfold, feel the dark folding its corners around your shoulders, wrapping a woolen blanket to muffle the noise, blur the action,  soften the edges.

With each exhale, a few more feathers become unruffled, the blood moves more slowly, the heart feels less need to beat its drum so loud and fast to hold your attention.  The muscles in your thighs unclench and you sink into purposeful drifting, where you can follow an idea wherever it takes you, unencumbered by the rattling tin cans of thinking.  Into labyrinths of possibility, across unexpected bridges, you trail ghosts of suggestion.  And now, with a hush, you can breathe quietness into being.

This post is the first in a new series that I’m calling ‘present not precious.’  I’m looking for a way to practice fluidity,  to get more writing out of my notebooks, but not be so precious about the words that they never fly off the page.  I’m hoping the posts become a middle ground between freewriting and crafted work.  The idea is to write it, post it, and move on.  I intend to be present, but not precious.

 

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One Response to How to approach quietness

  1. Marie says:

    A beautiful piece, Melissa. I enjoyed reading it. I felt my thighs relaxing and I didn’t even know they were tense.

    Like

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