Saturday, January 11, 2020

The Winter of Listening

The Winter of Listening
by David Whyte

No one but me by the fire,
my hands burning red in the palms
while the night wind carries everything away outside.
All this petty worry,
while the great cloak of the sky grows dark
and intense round every living thing.
What is precious inside us does not
care to be known by the mind
in ways that diminish its presence.
What we strive for in perfection
is not what turns us into the lit angel we desire,
what disturbs and then nourishes
has everything we need.
What we hate in ourselves is what we cannot know
in ourselves, but what is true to the pattern
does not need to be explained.
Inside everyone is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.
Even with the summer so far off
I feel it grown in me now
and ready to arrive in the world.
All those years listening to those
who had nothing to say.
All those years forgetting
how everything has its own voice
to make itself heard.
All those years forgetting how easily
you can belong to everything
simply by listening.
And the slow difficulty of remembering
how everything is born from
an opposite and miraculous otherness.
Silence and winter has led me to that otherness.
So let this winter of listening
be enough for the new life I must call my own.

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