I’ve read many books on coming to slowness. I came to slowness when I trekked in Nepal, and when I went through chemotherapy and radiation, and when I broke bones in both my feet and couldn’t walk. Slowness. Stillness.
It’s so still here this morning the wind chimes hang, no sound. The trees and clouds are so still I feel like I’m living in a matte painting. A friend says to view this time of sheltering-in-place as being on a retreat. Yes.
Anne Lamott writes, Peace is joy at rest and joy is peace on its feet.
In this moment, I’m peace listening to the twitter of birds while all seems still.