Not Entirely Sure

The quiet embraces me. I sit on the porch of this old house, without a plan for this slice. I don’t really know what part of my day will come through.

But I start typing anyway.

A car drives by, then silence returns.

It’s a way of being outside that I only get to experience on rare occasions. My whole life, I’ve been in loud cities.

This quiet is still a stranger to me.

This quiet cares very little about my presence.

This quiet speaks a different language. I’m immersed.

For a moment, as my consciousness tries to find the next line to thread into this weird post, I realize how tiny I am.

The present and I are truly and simply tiny. Every time I visit a new place or see something for the first time, I think, “This isn’t new. It’s always been here. The new thing here is me.”

But like me, there have been many others who have come and gone. I’m just one of many.

How long have these trees been here?

What was this land before the roads and houses appeared?

What stories are hidden underneath these Tennessee fields?

A gush of wind suddenly arrives, cutting through the silence. And then, also gone.

Everything feels so impermanent, yet so present.

Today was a very slicable day, yet I struggle to capture one single moment. Because it’s a rare state of being, admiring, longing. As I stood inside each moment today, I felt very tiny.

I knew the moment would go and another would come.

Now I sit outside, showing up for my writing commitment, not entirely sure what I’m trying to say.

The silence really is something here.