Lately I am thinking a lot about quiet. Searching for it, and making more space for it. Learning to listen to it.

In the mornings, I run—or walk, depending on my mood—and I listen to the sound of my feet, to my own breathing, to the birds singing, to the creatures rustling in the brush beside my path. It is not silent, but the voices are not demanding. Yesterday, I ran through the damp petals of wild roses, crushed along the path, and tried to imagine what fragrance says. How outrageous is our universe to woo us so?

The world is always demanding that I listen, and I give it my easy cooperation. I read the news—obsessively—and Facebook and Instagram are always calling to me. But my mind and heart are weary. I hear too much, I know too much, I care too much.

Some days, when I am very lucky, my house thrums with silence. The only sound, a dog, breathing beside me as I work. And perhaps the wind, humming down our chimney. In those moments, when my ears tune in, that silence is the loudest, fullest sound I’ve ever heard.

There is a language beyond words, and I long to interpret it. The cat is curled beside me; I tune to her peace, and begin again.