The soul can speak but it whispers

I’ve been trying to get very quiet sometimes lately, like as still and quiet as you’d get if you were crouching in the forest hoping a beautiful wild thing would come wander over and lay its head in your hand. It takes a bit of practice. The general volume inside and out of my head is historically a bit more “auctioneer” than “anchorite.”

But I’m trying. I’m turning down various knobs and finding more room for quiet, more of the time.

This way, sometimes, I can hear my soul. She doesn’t say much, but if I get quiet enough, I’ll move toward something and she’ll say one of two things:




Maybe in time she’ll move on to full sentences—or I’ll turn down the knobs even more so I can hear her at length.

But for now all she does is turn me subtly like a divining rod, and whether it’s her moving me or me, I’m grateful.

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