Shhh...

I'm reading a book called "Walking on Water" by Madeleine L'Engle and in the first chapter she writes, "when I am constantly running there is no time for being. When there is no time for being there is no time for listening."

I remember when I was pregnant with my first child, I was sitting in one of those prenatal classes that we're supposed to take at the hospital and the nurse who was instructing the class was giving us lessons on how to breathe during contractions. All of us big girls were sitting around in a semicircle on chairs desperately trying to not look fat, doing our best to pay attention while pretending not to notice the wasp that was taking nonstop suicide dives into the light bulb above our heads. It was an exciting night.

Meanwhile, the nurse would walk around the room observing the way we would be breathing: in deeply through the nose, relaxing the belly out, tongue down off the roof of the mouth, ears relaxed, shoulders limp. As she marched around the semicircle and came closer to me, I felt even more tense, worried that I'd be doing it wrong and that I'd be the example of what not to do. Everyone else seemed to be at peace while I felt like I had a cat caught somewhere inside of my body, scratching at me to get out. She stopped in front of me, and I will never forget this moment for as long as I live, she told me, "Suzy... you need to practice letting go of your anxiety." And then she walked on.

I'm the type of person who runs constantly so as to not have a time for being, because when there is a time for being there is a time for listening. And do you think I would want to hear what my body and mind wanted to tell me? Not a chance.

It wasn't until I went through the dreadlock phase that I started being still and opening myself up to what silence had to teach me. I was petrified, but I got to the point where it hurt too much to stay stuck where I was. I'd fluff my hippie blanket out, light my incense and then I'd sit in the middle of my bed and close my eyes and let my thoughts come and go with as much ease as a morning breeze. Sometimes the sun would feel warm on my face and then just as suddenly as it came it was replaced by the sting of hail. I'd sit there, face open and willing to receive, bear, and birth. I'd rock each thought, fear and hurt and then, belly out, tongue down and off the roof of my mouth, ears relaxed and shoulders limp, I'd let them go.