Soul Listening
Blooming May Apple—photo by Susan Izard
Dear Soul Friends,
My husband and I spent a very rainy Memorial Day weekend babysitting two of our grandchildren who are five and two years old. Their early morning energy and nonstop conversation were a delightfully shocking contrast to my contemplative practice each day. Rather than quietly writing, I was changing diapers, sorting laundry, washing dishes and sitting around the family table serenaded by the detailed chatter of any number of topics around drawing, food choices, and plans for the day. Our two year old announced his ideas in a loud sweet toddler way especially when his favorite birds arrived at the bird feeder outside the kitchen window. “There’s the mother cardinal! Do you see her? Oh, there’s the father cardinal! He’s red! See!” Watching along with him, our five year old gave a rapidly detailed description of the difference between the mother and father cardinal. It was wonderful to absorb their head spinning joy so early in the morning.
By Monday afternoon I needed a moment of quiet. Thankfully, the rain stopped in time for me to take a walk during naptime. Entering a small woodland trail, I offered a simple prayer, “Help me to see what I need to see.” A prayer like this allows me to bring my attention back to my soul and to listen for her wisdom. It’s a centering experience that releases the chaos and noise of the day and opens me to an inner stillness that I love.
A few steps down the path, I passed a stand of blooming May Apple. In the spring, a tiny white flower blooms beneath the large green leaves reminding me that sometimes small gifts are tucked beneath the surfaces of our lives. Often, quiet listening reveals them. It’s just a matter of paying attention.
Wisdom teacher Thich Nhat Hanh said, “When you walk, arrive with every step. That is walking meditation. There’s nothing else to it.”
As you travel through your week, may you be blessed with a few minutes of quiet and may your heart be opened to the mystery and wonder of the gift of life.
Deep peace to you,
Susan
