stillness Archives - Emma Laurence

I wake at 4:45am to kayak before sunrise. It’s our last morning on Lake Andrusia in northern Minnesota. I love the call of the loons, and rising before dawn means I might savor that sound one last time.

While not quite in my body yet, I manage my clothes, life jacket, and hat. I stumble out the cabin door with one thing in mind, get to the kayak—which is why I don’t see the great blue heron until I startle her into flight.

Stop, Emma, I chide myself. Slow down, match the stillness of the morning, and listen. As I watch the wide, slate blue wingspan lift, I recalibrate my pace to the surrounding stillness.

And at that moment, a loon’s two-toned call rises from the north, answered by the same interval from the east. The sound causes me to inhale a quick breath of delight. Then, I hold and wait.

Meanwhile, a mother duck and seven baby ducklings gently bob along the shoreline. I watch them glide under the dock and continue their morning swim towards the Mississippi River.

When all quiets again, I flip the kayak that’d been resting upside down on the sandy beach. I choose a paddle among those leaning against the boathouse. The kayak scrapes the shallow bottom as I push out into smooth, glassy water.

This hour of pre-dawn holds treasures like no other.

I paddle towards the east where light glows just above the tree line of the far shore. As I float forward, the color intensifies to a deep salmon.

Mid-lake, I pause to look back. To my surprise, the full moon is still visible in the western sky. Thin, translucent clouds cross its orb, creating a misty effect.

The southern sky is pale blue, mostly cloudless. In contrast, the northern sky is cloud-covered.

To the east, the rich salmon glow softens to purple gray. Light cast from the coming sunrise tints surrounding striated clouds a pale pink.

Silence. A fish jumps. Now, the fading purple is gradually replaced by gold.

And still, my heart dares to hope for more loons.

That’s when they call again! Yes, it’s a 1-4, I check with my memory of musical intervals. Then a 1-4-7. Then higher—and laughter, like a kookaburra.

I watch the golden glow build in brilliance until the sun’s rays pierce the horizon, stinging my eyes.

This feels like a sacred initiation.

I pivot the boat 360 degrees, like a camera panning the lake’s full form.

The hum of a small motor heralds the start of the fishing day. My kayak rocks slightly as the wind picks up. A sound vibrates in my right ear, as if my eardrum is fluttering.

In time, I paddle back to shore, changed. This is what I came for—wilderness, beauty, stillness, and silence. Except for the haunting, healing call of the loons.

Photo by Bruce Fuller

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When Minnesota went into lockdown, my husband joked that self-quarantine and living in our small town was redundant. For those of us who work at home, this wasn’t too much of a change. We have an established routine. We’re used to less outer stimulation. We’re more familiar with quiet than most.

But for many, the disconnect from work and social environments can be particularly disconcerting. Especially those living alone. After all, isolation is used as a means of punishment in such practices as solitary confinement. Or, if you truly want to hurt someone, ignore him.

What is it that makes isolation so distressing? And how can we come to terms with—even gain from—a situationally imposed silence?

I would offer, keep compassionate company with ourselves.

How does this work?

Silence requires that we face ourselves. There’s nowhere to hide, no distractions to prevent our attention from going down the self-judgment swirly bowl. We may have a habit of shaming ourselves for every perceived mistake, inventing ridiculous expectations, believing our lives are unimpactful to the world at large, and tipping the scales towards the ugly.

Keeping compassionate company with ourselves means that we’re willing to embrace all parts, those we label “good” and “bad.” Acceptance is a key ingredient in unconditional love—a skill we can master given the opportunity. In granting ourselves an abundance of kindness, forgiveness and understanding during tough times, we practice this skill.

In stillness and silence we can also discover our higher nature, which could never be labeled as “good” or a “bad.” After all, how can we judge a being of pure light?

From even as far back as Jesus’s time, the message love your neighbor as yourself implies that humans need to learn to love—first ourselves, then others. For years I wondered, who was loving whom? Am I split in two?

Sort of. I found that my higher nature, Soul, functions more like a compassionate camera, watching dispassionately the choices my human self makes in life. This viewpoint is the source from which I can give higher love to myself and others.

Stillness provides keen training in Soul skills such as honing intuition, exploring and decoding dreams, and experiencing the eternal connection with loved ones at a distance. From this place, I’m an eagle flying free over a rich mountain landscape, fulfilled in simply being alive.

The pain that comes in waves, threatening to pull my human mind and emotions under, can be calmed by the sound of my own voice, like a lullaby. In essence, I “sing” to the part of me that needs healing or company.

During world crises, I feel the weight of struggling masses and an almost desperate desire to serve. Silence has shown me that, when I can’t be on the front lines physically, I can hold others in the most loving space, in a heart that’s as empty as it is full.

Photo by Ani Kolleshi on Unsplash

Call of the Loons

The Compassionate Camera

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