Inwardness and true quietness appear to be but two aspects of the same thing -- of a "truly centered" life. In the innermost religion of life there is a perpetual calm; perturbations and excitements belong to the comparatively superficial part of our own nature. In cleaving to the Center we cannot but be still; to be inwardly still is to be aware of the Center.
The phoebe sits on her nest
Hour after hour,
Day after day,
Waiting for life to burst out
From under her warmth.
Can I weave a nest of silence,
weave it of listening,
listening, listening,
Layer upon layer?
But one must first become small,
Nothing but a presence,
Attentive as a nesting bird,
Proffering no slightest wish
Toward anything
that might happen or be given,
Only the warm, faithful waiting,
contained in one’s smallness.
Beyond the question,
the silence.
Before the answer,
the silence.