Early on a quiet, blue-sky morning, I hear rain drops fall on leaves. The shower had stopped, the clouds cleared, just before I went out. The slightest breeze caused droplets to slide from one leaf to another, a gentle, musical sound.
After supper on a blue-sky day where wind whipped the waves onto the shore though no clouds formed, the wind has died. Trees stand motionless, framing a half moon, cirrus-cloud white, lit by the westering sun. Later, the sun has passed beneath the horizon, the moon shines, a brilliant half-circle hovering just above the trees.
Other nights, looking up from my activity, or rising from bed, I catch the moment that the moon peeks over the eastern horizon. A path of light traces the space between us.
Walking through willows on spongy grass, the dogs are quiet, their noses taking in what we do not sense, knowing the creatures that passed here, that wait in the dense underbrush. There is no wind or rain. Sun chases mosquitos into the shadows. Feet make no sound. It is too still to speak, though company embraces the quiet.
Cold, clear night. The moon has not yet risen. The sky above is awash with pin-pricks of light. The cloud-like arm of the Milky Way stretches from one horizon to the other.
The paddle board is a water craft that I only take out when the water is still and the wind quiet. I don't have enough balance for wavey days. So, when I do get to my feet on the buoyant board, the water is crystal clear. I can make out the shape of every rock on the bottom. I catch sight of fish moving through the space beneath me. I approach the ducks who swim at a cautious distance but do not flee the quiet swish of my paddle. We share the surface of the water.
The peace of stillness is contagious, seeping into the spirit. But not just outside. Seated on the couch, our orange tabby joins me, rubs my leg. Then, lying down and laying his head on me, he begins to purr. He holds me still. Even if my tea cup needs refilling, I do not move, unwilling to disturb his peace.
An online yoga session where the poses made sense, drew me into the movements, kept my mind from my to do list. It ends with Shavasana, lying flat on the ground, relaxed, with the floor supporting the whole body. Resting, present in the body, mind still. Even if I am not practicing deep meditation, the moment brings a different, delicate awareness.
Early morning silence in the house. The sun not yet up. Wind quiet. Waves almost still. No one but me rises. The sound of the fan on the old laptop breaks the stillness, but the door to the room it lives in can be closed. I move quietly, reverently, honour the silence. As the light outside grows, a cricket chirps. This day, bird song begins later. Then, the puppy gags, once, again. I am not quick enough. He vomits in his kennel, a soft pile of yesterday's supper.
And so, my day begins, cleaning up what the puppy did not want in his stomach, washing the blanket so that he will not be afraid to enter the kennel. Outside to pee. Back inside for his breakfast. A little more work before the morning walk. Soon, ducks and gulls squawk. Other birds announce their presence, their intention for the day. I get on with what mine will bring me.
The moments of stillness, silence, are just that. Moments. Short periods when the needs of the world are pushed back. Sometimes they are fleeting enough to be painful. Sometimes what follows is challenging enough to wipe out even the memory of peace. But these times exist. Their beauty refreshes. Their strangeness reminds us that what seems like normal life is not all that there is.
Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway
