I move my morning basket from beside the wing chair in the living room where I have watched the sky in all her splendour declare the glory every morning, to the den. Now, and through the dark months ahead, I’ll greet the day there, on the leather sofa under a Sherpa blanket. Cozy. In solitude and silence.
As coffee brews and soy milk warms in the kitchen, I lift from the basket my Bible, journal, earbuds, and a selection of other books that are my companions in this season and make a nest for myself on the sofa. Then, mug of soy milky frothy coffee in hand, I settle in to read wisdom and pray.
It is Friday. Conversations and encounters from the week that is coming to a close linger. There was something about an interaction between two people I watched from afar one afternoon that I made note of. I intended to chew on it later but whatever it was that captured my attention seems to have slipped from my memory.
This week I’ve been blessed by friends who have asked: “How’r you doing?”. And then listened to my answer. Good conversation. Rumination. A seasonal shift.
Sooner or later we must distinguish between what we are not and what we are. We must accept the fact that we are not what we would like to be.
I’m thinking about the effort we put into image and how we learn to wear a façade so well that, eventually, we even fool ourselves into believing something that may not be entirely factual. And how in silence and solitude we cut to the chase.
We must cast off our false, exterior self like the cheap and showy garment that it is.
In this season I intend to read more long form work and ponder truth. I will work at contributing more than consuming. I will shut out the noise and choose, more intentionally, what I allow to shape me.
We must find our real self, in all its elemental poverty, but also in its great and very simple dignity: created to be the child of God, and capable of loving with something of God’s own sincerity and his unselfishness.
I will practice loving well in the manner I was created to do so—which will probably look different than how you do it. I will be quieter, sometimes speakIng louder without saying a word.
The season shifts and fall feels more and more like a much-needed rest. There’s something spoken in the whisper of leaves letting go. Can you hear it too?
(The quotes in this post are all from Thomas Merton