We move forward, even when convinced we are standing still.
That's the lesson I've learned through this summer of silence.
The seasons change around us, times change and regardless of our plans, our personal failures, our bouts with fear or grief, one day we look up and notice that we aren't quite in the same spot we thought we were.
“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she said, and I knew what she meant; what she was feeling, because I felt it too.
All I felt was tired. Too tired to keep up the running conversation I had been having on paper with myself for years. Too tired to lift my camera from its resting spot and see the world through different eyes. Too tired to experience my life as anything more than a task list, with each hour carefully planned and precious few seconds to remember that there is a time and season for everything.
And then yesterday, standing under our massive old walnut tree that has absorbed at least a century of knowledge, I noticed it. There were golden leaves quietly falling all around me and I knew what had happened. The season had changed.
My season had changed.
And for a moment I wondered how it happened. And then I didn't any more. Because the miracle isn't in how it happened.
It's in the fact that somehow, without my permission, it just did.