Over the weekend I sat in my favourite bakery, with a hot chocolate, a warm cherry danish and my journal. I breathed, I wrote and I listened. I took a scenic drive through hills, my soul taking a fresh breath as I took in the green folds, the rocky outcrops, gum trees, cattle and sheep, all bathed in the gentle winter sunshine.
It felt good, refreshing.
But now it’s another working week and the cares of daily life, the routines and commitments, are all crowding in, clamouring for attention.
How do I find spiritual whitespace now?
Another day, another wait at the bus stop. It’s cold, and everyone is standing silently, some tapping away on their smart phones, others with wired up and listening to their favourite music.
Across the road I see a tall tree, almost bare, lit by early sunlight. The last red leaves of autumn cling stubbornly to its naked branches.
There’s movement, and soon I spot one, then two or three more birds, their chests a pinky red.
They bob and flit around the tree, before disappearing in a flurry of wings and chirping. They remind me of children just let out of school.
And just as I think there’s nothing else to see, I notice more birds hopping around on the ground below. And sparrows skim the air low and then rise above the rooflines. I wonder how I thought it was silent as I begin to hear all the different birdsongs. In the distance, a rooster crows Good Morning.
And suddenly it seems almost magestic, this moment for my soul to breathe.
This gift of spiritual whitespace.
This gift of rest.