I am outside of the city, alone. Due to the generosity of some dear friends, I am staying in a cabin by a lake, a perfect spot to seek the solitude that I need. It is quiet. The sun is slowly setting, making the water glisten and sparkle with the last of its light. Every once in a while, I hear the hum of hummingbirds and the groan of frogs. 

This is not the first time I have been here. I am reminded of this as I scan the guest book that I have repeatedly inscribed. More often than not I expect to spend at least some of each visit journaling, praying, and working things out that have been huddling in my heart. I am not usually at a loss for words. In fact, I can be spinning with them: writing in a flurry, talking out loud to myself and to God, catching thoughts as they swirl around my head. 

For the last number of days I have been struck by this: I have no idea what to say. I’m surprised that I am even compelled to sit and type right now. Since mid-March life has looked extraordinarily different. As I got in the van to drive here, I kept thinking, “now I will finally begin to process 2020.” That thought now makes me smirk. But maybe it shouldn’t. 

Processing can take on various forms. Just because I find myself mute doesn’t mean I’m not working things out. I think I’m listening- to the wind, the grasshoppers, the sound of the clock on the wall, and the water as it laps against the shore. I have always loved John O’Donahue’s turn of phrase, “the great poise of the trees” and so I’m considering it as I stare at the trunks that sprout out of the ground and reach up to the sky. I am reading a book a day, voraciously interested in other people’s words. 

There is something comforting about being in a place where it is easy to feel connected to the earth just doing its thing. The sun rises in the east, slowly moves across the sky until it sets in the west. Whether I’m watching or not, dragonflies zoom through the air, chipmunks scurry along the ground, and minnows glide through the water. While sitting in a kayak today, just watching my surroundings, a figurative dam opened in my heart and I began to weep. 

For those who know me, tears typically come quickly and easily, though strangely not to the same degree over the last number of months. As someone who has experienced repeated crisis, I kind of know how to “manage” it. I do what needs to be done because it has to get done. What I can forget in the middle of it is to slow down, to stop. Scripture invites me to be still and know that God is God, both because of and in spite of whatever circumstances I find myself in. 

It is dark now. The stars are making an appearance. I hear a trio of loons. I will read a little more, and then turn in for the night. The weight of everything going on in the world remains heavy. There is much to process, learn, and go and do. I trust the words will come. But first I will sit, enveloped in silence.