I had dressed, eased through my bedroom door, softly turned the lock on the front door, and walked into a glorious August morning in the community of Catalina, just north of Tucson. It was shortly past dawn. We were house guests of the Bob Allen family, at whose church on Wednesday evening, Jerry had preached. Now, though, the household lay asleep, and I, fully awake, stood surveying their magnificent gardens.
Around the corner of the house, I came upon a folded lawn chair, tugged it open, and sat. And sat. Tender air ruffled soft leaves of scores of plants, fountains and waterfalls played, and the tiny creek bubbled and bounced. Dozens of birds fluttered around me, the ground was abuzz with activity, and from somewhere in the trees over my head, I picked up the cottony coo of a grey dove. Butterflies flitted, bright yellow flags of morning.
For more than an hour, I didn’t move, but drew in wide draughts of solitude. I pondered, philosophized, and gazed. Such a stance was a wild divergence from that of last week when I was in Santa Maria, and lay as juxtaposition to the remainder of the day, for when the others were up and about, we would experience a day chock full of brilliant activities.
I’m of the mind that solitude is as necessary for the id and for the soul as is food for the body and exercise for the muscle. Quiet reflection refines. It replenishes the spirit, lends insight, and sorts through our maze of daily issues. Silent moments expand our vision, tune our ear, and search our souls.
Give such a gift to yourself. From busyness, sculpt a warm nook where for an hour or so you can hunker down and suck in deep swallows of reflection and of soul-awareness.