I have returned from a week of silence and meditation. I have been awake and conscious of the dawn chorus every morning.
Getting up when the dawn is breaking is difficult at first, but it gets easier. It is a natural rhythm to be asleep when it is dark and aware when it is light.
Time itself begins to transform. Digital time, with its obsession for measuring each minute of the day, becomes of no interest. Of passing interest are the slow and predictable waves of inner time – waking, sitting, eating, working, gentle laughter and the touch of a hand on my arm. The warm spring sunshine on my face, and the snorting of horses in the stables. The gritty chatter of swallows in the eaves.
Returning to the everyday world has not been easy. It isn’t unpleasant. It just doesn’t seem to be very real.
I am faintly amused by the noise of computers, radios and televisions. Right now I am being lulled into a sleepy smile by the sound of a hair drier upstairs!
It will pass, of course, and I will start to wear a watch again and start to worry about my blog readership (as though my worry will make any difference to you).
It is a strange state, this sense of being detached yet, at the same time, endlessly fascinated by little things that share my world. On retreat I became obsessed by a plant. I didn’t know what it was, but I took lots of photos of it. I thought about it a lot and how it didn’t need a digital watch either.
Now I am slowly adjusting to this new world, while carrying new insights with me.
No need to rush.
I will come and go like the plant with no name, or like a trembling breath of wind, or like the new froths of white flowers on the blackthorn
No need to rush at all.