A Return to the Blank Page
Words by Mari Laine, Toulouse
Maybe in this season of waiting and of not doing… we can begin to hear our own voice.
I can't hear myself think. I would like to write, but one needs thoughts in order to write. There is too much noise. Always. Noise. I am confined with a family of extroverts. How did Noah's family not kill each other? The ark must have been gigantic - - many rooms, private apartments, en suite bathrooms. Here, we live on top of each other, we are constantly in each other's personal space and time. Where did I go? Where do I end? I bend this way: I lend an ear, I lend a hand, I cook the meals, I entertain the electrons so they stay in their orbital paths. The space-time continuum has never felt so continual.
I thank God for the garden. It's not Eden, but after five weeks of confinement I can say with some satisfaction that the weeds fear me. I've planted seeds. I hovered over them every day, watering jug in hand, sprinkling solemnly, like a sanctifying priest. I circled back at the slightest change in temperature, doting mother that I am. But a watched pot never boils, and neither can nature be rushed. Waiting is never easy. Then one day, when I had nearly lost hope, a few sprouts appeared. A miracle! The beginnings of all things are magic. Maybe one day we will be able to live off the earth, the good earth.
I can work hours in the garden. But in reality, there is little to do other than pick weeds. So I find myself returning to myself. I am forced to sit quietly and be scrutinized by the blank page. Even through these tentative scratched lines, I feel myself being reconciled. It's not in the doing, in the daily busy-ness that one finds one's voice. (Especially if it is small and weak, afraid of ridicule, of being mocked.) It's in the quiet that the still voice pushes out from the grain and offers a tendril to the light. All it can do is reach for the light, the good light. Offer it rich soil, a drizzle of rain. "Grow, grow," you whisper, like the angels of the Talmud, bending over each blade of grass. It feels an eternity, and then one morning the sprouting muscle has pushed up, pushed out, like a newborn singing its little green voice.
I can't hear it, my voice. Not yet. I know its first words will be a prayer. Lifted to the good, loving Light, its Creator. A prayer for what will come.
But for now, I can listen.
Words by Mari Laine, Toulouse
May 6
