Living in the Moment, Mindfulness, Writing

This Quiet Plot

Suzie Seitz

Silence is the absence of sound. That is where we start. Then we hear what’s left when a bow lifts from its string, the reverberation humming across window glass and skimming over curved iron rails. Even after it dissipates, sound remains. We cross a bridge from memory to the note that arrives next, if any. This is not a certainty.

The lift carries us. The resonance in our own blood rides over when the bow releases it from its string. The arm lifting belongs to the song. Muscles move the arm. Breath fuels muscle. Pulse syncopates with breath.

Player, instrument, audience, the hollow belly of night. Nothing is silent. Inside the ear, a river rushes. Even in the dark, even alone, we sleep on its roaring banks.

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Mindfulness, Poetry

Mass x G x Height

Stillness is impossible.
Just try to stand
frozen. Ankles flex. Toes grip. Knees
hips spine skull
of course the brain, a multitude
of microscopic adjustments. It is not
that holds you firm
to the skin
of the earth
but motion. A taxidermist
would have to stuff your sack of flesh
with rebar and concrete to keep you
upright. And still
one gust could take you down. And still
you are not
even aware of the exertion
to stay exactly where you are, no less
or more
than what you might expend
by taking
that step.