Stillness

I plunge off the bus. It trundles on and I am immersed in stillness that rings loud like the whoosh and whir of water in your ears while holding a breath. Like water it starts to seep inside and I notice the sound of every leaf that touches another, the path of each passing insect, the whip and wisp of owl wings in the willows.

In awe I wonder, who made this?

As if someone must have done it.

Stillness whispers back.

This is not a gift to me.  

It is me, and I am it.  

The ways we are separate are of my own creation and volition.  

My clothes, bug spray, bear spray- they are barriers I want.

But I don't want them.

But I do.

A storm sweeps toward me, its soft appearance from afar is a disguise for fury, I have seen the masquerade before (in me).  

I don't need to see it coming, I feel the air change, I smell it. 

 I want a barrier.  

I fortify myself inside a rampart of raincoat and rain pants.  

I wait in the downpour, not wet. 

Separate.

I wave to a bus, board another barrier. 

Walls upon walls.  

I am safe from the storm but separated from myself.

I lived in the stillness.

Stillness.

You weave wonders through me.

My deep feels healed,

real,

enlivened.

Splitting thoughts like meteors

plummet powerless

as a confident knife

slicing the whipping wind.

Stillness gently rests near,

on,

in,

is

me.

We are we.

You weave healing wonders

Of me still.