Wish For Quiet

(The Bluebell Wood, Alfred Fontville de Breanski)

I lead a small life: eventful, trying at times, but small. And I know it is such because I love it that way. I am not a brave soul -- I am a quiet soul. And I am painfully aware of it when the sweet thrummings of the earth are constantly made war upon by machines in air, under water, and on land. As I wait for one airplane to pass, another advances. Every now and then a lawn mower, leaf blower, hedge trimmer, or some other such labor saving device wafts toward me. Then there is the ever coursing stream of cars, driven on by a busy, scattered people, and in the north at least, the constant "vroom-vroom" is accentuated by angry car horns. There is no serenity here.

Oh, the noise! That ever present distraction driving everyone to distraction. Even I, a self-diagnosed "quiet soul," being so accustomed to constant din, find silence discomforting. And if that be the case -- I shudder to think of the consequences for those who love the racket. If the Lord calls for solitude, for rest, for being still and knowing, we must quiet the noise.

I sit perched on a little bank in my Maryland neighborhood. Down where the rain water collects and drains has grown a patch of pinkish wildflowers. They are quiet; they are still.

Oh, to be a wildflower in a field of largest acreage, of broadest boundaries. We have so few fields, few forests, few green spaces anymore. When I leave the driveway, I am confined to a busy neighborhood surrounded on either side by crowded streets.

So I sit alone, wishing for quiet.