Sacred Silence: What Surfaces When Things Get Quiet

The noise of the world is temporary.

The silence within you

is always available.

You can return to it whenever

you choose.

I choose to sit in

stillness every day.

In a world that rarely stops talking, striving, and doing, choosing silence can feel almost radical. At first, it may even feel uncomfortable. Go outside for five minutes today and sit in stillness. Let the birds become your teachers, the breeze your companion, and your own breath your guide.

Notice what there is to see with new eyes and your full presence. The universe speaks in sacred whispers all around you. After the initial discomfort of silence, notice how your breathing softens and how clarity quietly begins to emerge.

The spiritual path is not linear. It spirals. It circles back. It asks us to remember what our soul has always known rather than constantly seeking something new.

I thought at times the accumulation of knowledge from spiritual books, classes, and practicing rituals was the map to enlightenment with clear boundaries that would give me certainty.

While each has offered wisdom and supported my journey, I have come to realize that nature has become my greatest teacher. It broadens my perspective and gently reminds me that magic surrounds me every day.

We need only become still enough to notice the quiet gifts waiting in the birds, the trees, the water, the breeze, and the many creatures with whom we share this beautiful Earth.

The path has felt less constructed and more spacious, inviting me into the freedom to simply be still and observe. Over the last month, I have experienced a series of profound encounters with the natural world that have left me filled with awe and each has softened my heart more into love than I thought possible.

I have come to experience animals, plants, trees, etc. as benevolent messengers. The more quietly I sit with them, the more they seem willing to share their presence and fill me with their divine energy. The more still I become...the longer they linger. Some have come with branches, flowers, feathers, antennae, and others dressed in fur, and quite a few in smooth or bumpy skin.

The first encounters were with robins. We all know robins can fly, yet they spend much of their time hopping along the ground. One morning, a robin hopped all the way up my twenty-two Zen garden steps before flying to my neighbor's black wrought-iron fence. In that quiet moment, I understood. I didn't need to see the entire path ahead. I only needed to take the next step.

Another morning, I sat on my front steps listening to the chorus of birds greeting the day. A gentle rustling beside my garden caught my attention. When I turned, a robin stood only a few feet away foraging in the mulch.

As I watched, its crimson breast slowly expanded with each inhale, then gently settled with each exhale. I smiled as I realized its breath mirrored my own. We were sharing the same quiet rhythm. It was an ordinary moment that became extraordinary simply because I was present enough to notice it.

I had never noticed a robin's breath before. Perhaps it wasn't the robin that had changed. Perhaps I had.

The next encounter was with a green frog basking in the morning sunshine on the warm stones that border our backyard pond. It remained there quietly, as if keeping watch over the water. Looking at it, I realized our pond needed to be cleaned and refreshed --not only for the frog, but for the birds and the many creatures who come to drink, bathe, and find refuge there.

Frogs and toads absorb water through their skin, making clean water essential to their well-being. I needed the water to be clean for them just as much as they needed clean water.

My husband pumped the pond dry, cleaned the stones and sides, and refilled it with fresh water. The old pump, which served us faithfully for years, had finally stopped working, so we replaced it with a new one.

I wanted fresh water for all of the creatures that have come to rely on the pond for clean water.

"...the frog was sitting on the tubing suspended above the water, looking directly at me. In that quiet exchange, I felt a deep sense of gratitude flowing between us." I took a seat on the 11th step and we held eye contact for several minutes.

Grandmother Toad was my next visitor. One morning, I walked out to the pond and a large toad was sitting in the water. It looked as though she was trying to climb out, but the smooth plastic liner was too slippery. Each time she reached with her front legs, she slowly slid back into the water. It looked to me that she might be stuck in the pond.

I got the skimmer out and picked her up and placed the whole skimmer on the edge of the pond and she sat there for awhile gazing at me. Then she leaped into the ferns with what sounded like a long releasing sigh. I had never heard that before. She came out of the ferns and stayed for a few moments on the stepping stones in front of the pond. Grounded in herself she was filled with the quiet wisdom of an ancient being.

Quiet creatures continue revealing themselves when I slow down enough to notice.

My last two animal encounters happened last week at Lake Roosevelt in Outing, MN. A favorite destination three hours north of where we live. For decades we returned to this lake as our children grew up, allowing it to become part of our family's story. The lake is clean, deep, and quiet, its still waters echoing with the haunting calls of the loons.

There is a channel from our dock where we stayed this year to the other side of the lake where there are only trees, deer, eagles, and other wildlife. I put on my bright yellow buoy and swam across the lake. On my swim back to the dock, something extraordinary happened, a moment of pure grace unfolded before my eyes. A loon glided out of the sky and landed on the water just ten feet away. I stopped swimming and simply watched.

We rested together on the water in shared silence. Then it opened its beak and offered its haunting, ancient call. The sound echoed across the lake and through my heart. In that moment, I wasn't simply observing nature--I felt initiated into it. By slowing down enough, I had room for wonder to land beside me before the loon slipped beneath the deep water and resurfaced thirty or forty feet away.

The next morning as I practiced yoga on the dock I noticed a green dragonfly struggling in the water. I stepped off my red yoga mat, reached for the kayak oar, gently lifted her from the water.

I placed her safely on the dock and observed her for a while. After a few minutes, I offered my index finger, and she climbed aboard with her tiny black feet, their delicate roughness helping her gain purchase.

She used her front legs to clear the water from her eyes. I walked up the hill to the cabin with my little green fairy passenger and showed three granddaughters who were playing in the grass near the cabin.

Of course, they were delighted and eager to see whether she would climb onto their fingers, too. She did. One by one, she trusted each of my three granddaughters enough to climb onto their outstretched index fingers. To all of us, she looked as though she were smiling. After several minutes, she flew away.

Stillness is not an

emptiness we

enter.

It is a sacred

presence we

remember--and

carry with us

when we rise.

In stillness, I observe.

In stillness, I receive.

In stillness,

I am enriched and soothed.

In stillness, I remember the laughter

and wonder held within a child's heart.

In stillness,

I trust

I surrender

I courageously

step into nature

and transform.

Namaste