it begins with a meditation

she does not speak in thunder or the roar of conflagration
her voice is not rush of water or gust

listen for the small, still voice

find it in the hours when the black of the highway is unbroken by headlights and the night is a secret you tell no one

find it as a breeze lifts the sweat from your cheeks as you sit on a mountain outcrop born a billion years ago

find it sewn into the lining of the noise of the coffee grinder, in the gaps between the words "green tea with milk and honey"

the right silence is not a crushing of voice
do not cover the wound but let it bleed until there is nothing
silence is an emptying
each chore or occupation unattended is a balloon rising within you
do not contain them
touch each one, then let it go
watch it drift up into every shade of blue until it's too far to see

now, listen.