I learned early on that being alone wasnít always so lonely. Being uncomfortable with the larger world, I only felt safe in my beloved woods and fields. Solitude was my best friend. I could hear God whisper in the quietness. But itís the nature of life to get louder and more crowded. It seems to be the nature of man to crave constant stimulation.
But sometimes now, in the depths of the night, it comes back in like a wave. And I feel myself rolling in a silent grave. As if the sea has returned to claim me, to drag my limp body down, ever down to the depths. The sinking starts after midnight and the morning comes too soon. Iím not ready for the light to creep into my darkened room. I want, I need, to lie lifeless on the ocean floor, just a little longer, just a bit more. To drink my cup of solitude is a blessing. To inhale itís icy, clean water into starved lungs.
Until I feel nothing but the water and hear nothing but my breath. And you might think me mad. You may be right. But, how mad are our cities and and shores, teaming with millions whose voices never stop. Hammering. Yammering, Clammering to be heard.
Once, we had the six oíclock news.
And when it was done, you could turn it off.
Walk outside. Sit in the starlight. Let the peepers lull you to sleep.
Now the noise never stops. And it seems youíre entitled, no, required, to join in.
Add some yammering and clammering of your own.
But donít you ever just want to be?
To be emptied of your opinions.
To feel God instead of trying to understand Him.
Sometimes itís even more than all that.
Sometimes it rolls over me like a dream, a song too long unsung. This longing for the womb. For utter stillness of mind and heart and body and soul.
Before we travel into this world, we are known.
Floating in embryonic fluid. In a sea of silence, where Godís voice gradually speaks us into being without a sound.
But sometimes itís even more than that.
Sometimes I miss what I canít possibly recall. To roll under waves of grace, yes, before I ever shed a tear. But further back, there is a deeper solitude.
Before time, before death. Blessed quietness before the sin curse. To be but a seed in the mind of the Almighty, but a drop of inspiration in the endless garden of His mind. If I could rest there for a moment, or an eternity. To be yet unspoken. That would be the ultimate communion within the most vast solitude of all.
Yes, I learned early not to speak all these thoughts. The line between musings and madness is thin, after all.