Rain is coming down fiercely. Wind is whipping the branches. The ground is still covered in snow. It is a cold rain. Indeed, it has been decades since this much precipitation has come. I think it fine and dramatic.
There are times in which my thoughts and mood draws me inward, where the secrets of my heart hold me tight and do not relent their grip. I find myself retreating from most everyone else and letting my own being wrap around me for a while. It is not so much I feel a need to stay hidden or secret, or that I am too lazy to share what is within. It is deeper than that. My soul recoils against expression because it is not settled on what to express, the retreating itself is the expression, the unwillingness to share is the profound statement.
What is this? Is is recharging? Re-evaluating? Restoring? I don’t know. I feel fine and yet I feel inward as though the gates of my being are now shut tight for a while, as though I am besieged by some mysterious force which keeps me from exiting and engaging.
It could also be a call to focus on that which brings delight and focus away from that which distracts.
I don’t know. I write this because I don’t want to write. I want to leave a blank page as an expression of now, only I know that empty entries are more likely interpreted as not finding a moment to spare.
I find a moment, many moments, and yet my heart whispers to stay quiet, to step away, to let the universe speak to me for once without my insistence on codifying my impressions. To listen and wait and absorb is my task. For what? For what is any of this? That is the eternal question.