Moonlight paints the room in bright, solid rectangles. The hum of crickets comes at me like a stage whisper: quiet but obvious, insistent. These intrusions into an otherwise dark and silent space emphasise my solitude, and the peace I have in this moment.
On another day I find another gentle stretch of time. Trees sway in the wind; I don’t hear them. The sun beats down on the shallow bay and on the streets, but I am in cool, diffuse light. I soak in solitude and silence.
These could be times to write, or to edit, but that feels wrong. Even when I long to be writing, I can’t do it in these mellow moments. They are rare windows, and I savour them for their own sake. They are part of the rhythm of living, like breathing. To deny them is like holding my breath; I can’t do it for long before I lose all composure and start gasping for air.
I have had to learn to leave work behind, all the excitement of it, and all the mundanity, to experience these extraordinary intervals of peace. They invite me to remember my small place in our infinite universe. They ground me, and change my perspective. They are an antidote to my runaway impatience.
If I give my time to these moments, my moments to these times, inspiration and creativity follow. It is a harvest of sorts, and I reap what I have sown.
Tania Sickling 