Words are inadequate this morning, so I light a candle. Lift a breath for Leo Henri, Shawn and Maile’s new son. The words Shawn has written about his birth have left me full, my heart savory with their beauty.
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Yesterday, as I came from the chicken coop – from the quiet clucking of contentment and simplicity – a doe huffed at the bottom of our land and bounded across the field – “divinity in the tracks of deer.”
P and I drive up the mountain, through the mouth of the glacier that once settled there and then up, up, ears popping. We turn onto a gravel road – 4-wheel drive recommended – and trust our low-slung Subaru to make the journey. On our way back out, miles back into pavement, we stop, 10 seconds, because all we can see are trees, and all we hear is the whisper of wind amongst them.
I love language, the feel of it as it smacks and slides against my tongue, the sheer power of it – a hug, a stiff arm, a mushroom cloud in syllables. Yet, sometimes, sometimes, language does not render, recreate, shape things whole.
In those moments, the quiet breath of an infant joins the wind on a mountainside, and we are all awed into silence.
Have you ever felt that words cannot capture the beauty of your experience? What was your response to that moment?