When any one of us is dragged into the prison of illness and hospitalized, the surroundings can feel so cold and noisy. Lying amid our pain, we may conjure images of softness, of being comforted by a caregiver with the gift of Love in her hands. We may yearn for something rare in a hospital – quiet.
Quiet
Still,
in the forest’s still air,
a leaf comes to me without the wind’s nudging,
as if I have summoned her
to soft onto my hair, shift to my shoulders
before she falls to her rest.
In the quiet autumn, I watch another leaf take flight.
Swinging side to side she skates around threads of a spider web,
startles a mockingbird, dodges the serrated
hands of a holly bush.
In the still air, the oak’s dying offspring arrive gentle. They know
I need the kind touch of their fingertips & yours.
In the pain of my illness, I want this quiet.
I want you to hold me still
as the still day, the sun
warming me, the sounds
of the world silenced.
-Erie Chapman
Journal of Sacred Work 
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