mav scb February 1, 2018 It is about this time in winter, mid-winter, that I get very restless. Generally I start to feel dizzy with the energy. What’s next? What’s next? What’s next?, my mind annoys. Since moving toward the woods, nearly two months ago now, I have felt the gentle bolstering of my new natural landscape in these moments of impatience. The stillness. The patience of the trees. The quiet nests where birds can be heard ever so slightly. This poem by David Whyte speaks to me now. Maybe it will speak to you. xo, MAV THE WINTER OF LISTENING by David Whyte No one but me by the fire, my hands burning red in the palms while the night wind carries everything away outside. All this petty worry while the great cloak of the sky grows dark and intense round every living thing. What is precious inside us does not care to be known by the mind in ways that diminish its presence. What we strive for in perfection is not what turns us into the lit angel we desire, what disturbs and then nourishes has everything we need. What we hate in ourselves is what we cannot know in ourselves but what is true to the pattern does not need to be explained. Inside everyone is a great shout of joy waiting to be born. Even with the summer so far off I feel it grown in me now and ready to arrive in the world. All those years listening to those who had nothing to say. All those years forgetting how everything has its own voice to make itself heard. All those years forgetting how easily you can belong to everything simply by listening. And the slow difficulty of remembering how everything is born from an opposite and miraculous otherness. Silence and winter has led me to that otherness. So let this winter of listening be enough for the new life I must call my own. Share TWITTER FACEBOOK TUMBLR PINTEREST EMAIL