I went for a walk yesterday. I wanted to be out in nature, to sit and write a bit, read a bit, just soak in nature for a while.

I went somewhere I knew well so that I didn’t have to overthink it – just enjoy the walk and then settle in once I reached my destination. I also wanted to check in on the little swan family that I hadn’t seen since lockdown had begun to ease.

I wasn’t alone in checking up on the swans – others were there as well, the children enthralled with all the feathered creatures eager for their seed and fruit. Eventually everyone continued on and I was alone.

I chose a spot where I had a lovely view of the sparkling waters of the pond as well as the swans, ducks and various species of water fowl all paddling about.

Pulling out my book and journal, I settled in and quietly read and wrote for a while, enjoying the undisturbed quiet and the gentle rustling of the wind dancing amongst the trees. Then I began to notice something happening. The ducks and other water fowl had all come back to shore and were either sitting cosily in the earth or walking around looking for worms. Little finches began to come out from the cover of the brush and hop about in front of me. One of the swans came up quite close to me, fully aware of me yet paying me no attention as it looked for things to nibble on, seemingly completely at ease with my being there.

A family arrived on the scene, the wee girls excited to feed the ducks. Their great excitement resulted in them throwing the bits of fruit more at the bewildered birds than to them. To the the disappointment of the two little sisters, they all swam off to the refuge of the middle of the pond or the camouflage of the tall grasses. So the family went on their way. I continued to quietly write. And eventually, the ducks reappeared back on shore, the wee finches came out of the brush again and the swans paddled contentedly near by.

And I marvelled. I felt privileged, honoured even, that nature revealed herself to me, seemed happy to have me in her presence and be herself with me, all because I was quiet.

When others were there, all the birds were on guard, not behaving naturally and easily, some disappearing altogether. But when all left and it was just me, they returned and returned in full display of their natural behaviours to feed and bathe and rest and play.

I began to reflect on how quiet can have the same affect with us as humans. Quiet can help to facilitate a safe space and give an unspoken invitation to enter that space in the fullness of who we are.

Maybe it’s just me, how I am wired, but nothing causes me to internally retreat faster than when well-meaning advice is thrown at me rather than gently extended to me. When I am not given space to complete my own thoughts but my sentences are finished for me. When I am sharing my heart but interrupted constantly, either with humour or divided attention. When asked a question and rushed for the answer. Or the answer is not even waited for. I retreat back inside and wait until all is quiet again.

I don’t think it is just me. And it makes me wonder how often in our attempts to help others, we so rush to offer the solutions, the answers, the counsel that we miss an opportunity to really see and hear someone.

What could happen if we made more time and space for one another? Time, space, quiet. A quiet that is not necessarily always silence, but an intentional stilling of ourselves and all the words we think the other person needs to hear. Facilitating a space that feels safe and invites the soul of that person to more fully emerge.

And what an honour and privilege that is.

‘Sitting here quiet

Nature revealing herself

I know privilege’