Let me tell you about this meditation business. Don’t get me wrong: I see the value. A little peace, a chance to quiet the storm inside — that sounds like a blessing, wouldn’t you say?
So I try. I close my eyes and wait for the calm. But my mind, oh my mind, it’s like a field after a summer squall. Ideas buzz, memories surface like forgotten treasures, and all the while, a low hum of worry sounds beneath it all.
Will the pecan trees survive another winter? Probably not. Did I remember to mail that letter to my friend in Atlanta? Of course not! These questions: they weave through the silence, refusing to be stilled.
Maybe it’s because my life has always been a song -– a melody of struggle, resilience, and the unwavering hope for a better tomorrow. There’s no room for silence in that symphony. The quiet feels like an empty page, and a writer can’t bear a blank sheet, can she?
But then, sometimes, in the midst of the mental whirlwind, a flicker. A moment of stillness, a connection to the earth beneath me, the breath rising and falling in my chest. It’s fleeting, like a firefly in the twilight, but it’s there. And in that brief space, there’s a knowing –- a knowing that the fight continues, the stories need telling, but so does the woman who tells them need tending.
So, I’ll keep trying. Maybe one day, the silence won’t feel so empty, but like a fertile field waiting to be planted with new seeds of peace. Until then, I’ll take those fleeting moments of calm, cherish them like dewdrops on a morning glory, and keep singing my song, a little louder perhaps, to drown out the noise in my own head.
