The other day I came home. I was already at home, but I came home in myself. I sat down in our garden and settled into life. And I could feel it again. The silence. I wrote. A lot of anxiety came out through my writing. Things like the fear of not having enough money, being afraid that I would need to take a job that would drain my creative spark, fear of being too busy and not paying attention to the things that really matter.
As I sat down there in my garden I let it all run out through my hand pen and unto paper. And suddenly from out of the blue I began getting images of Indians. I saw Indians walk and move through the forrest and through life. And I thought there was something very special about this image. And then I knew what was so striking about them: the way they listened.
The Indians I saw knew how to listen to life itself. In that moment I knew that if I want to learn how to really listen like they did, I need to not be so full of myself and my plans. I saw that if we humans today want to hear the fine almost unhearable sounds of wisdom that runs like a hidden stream under all life, we need to become so still that we can hear past all the other noises.
And I saw that our focus is like inducing fluid. If we listen from a quiet place and give space to more than ourselves, then those small unhearable sounds become stronger and stronger until they form a clear, very hearable sound.
That day in the garden I felt a humble gratitude toward the indian people. Who knows what they won on humanitys behalf? On your and my behalf. Maybe they created a sacred space in life for listening. A space that will always be there, available for us to tap into when we are still enough to hear more than ourselves, in a quiet moment.