At seven-thirty in the morning, few sounds can be heard. Surprisingly, most random urban sounds are non-existent. Mechanical sounds from nearby buildings can be heard as well as some type of incessant flapping noise which sounds like a cord blowing in the wind and hitting the closed window. The only random sounds are the black birds squawking as they sit on the flight.
At seven-forty the stillness provides all types of stimulation for the imagination. Plans about the day shimmer in the wonder improvisation stages within waking minds, shimmer briefly before fading away. Modern life is a wonderful improvisation. Modern life is unscripted. Modern life when all the electronic gizmos are removed is really no different than life one hundred years ago.
Affluence often fuels the desire to influence or to attempt to influence others. A sense of universal entitlement is the byproduct of this affluence which also produces a haphazard angst.
At seven fifty-five, the computer catches a typographical error. The sky remains a cool, dull gray. The heavy duty sounds of diesel engines can be heard from the streets down below. A stray sound like a gunshot could also be heard. Maybe it was a backfiring automobile engine trying to start.
In the stillness of this morning, my thoughts are of the things that I want to do today. The top of the list is go to Mass. Sitting here allowed me to begin to clear my mind of extraneous thoughts as I try to become more humble, open, and mindful. Spires from different churches in the city are visible. The birds souns again. The sky appears to become darker. Is this dawn? Is this dusk.
Faint, delicate raindrops can be felt. At the edge of the horizon, the sky is a lighter gray, almost white. This Sunday morning is alive with God’s mystery, God’s hope, God’s love. The air is damp, cool. In the distance at an intersection the red light is clearly visible before changing to green. Two or three cars with headlights on move through the intersection. The aroma of freshly fried bacon floats on top of a faint breeze.
The bird have flown away. The fragile raindrops have ceased. A distant flashing DON’T WALK sign is easily seen. The grumblings of jet engines taking off and landing can be heard. A red convertible with a soft black top drives into and ally, then stops and slowly backs into a parking space. The wind blows harshly. Exposed skin wants to shiver. Fog covers the top of the Washington Monument and the Capitol dome. More dark gray cloudsThis is a time of quiet, of patience, of stillness.
Eight thirty-nine and time for prayer.
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