speak softly love

This morning I am thinking about softness.

Tucked into the privacy of my porch, wrapped in the soft warmth of my grandmother’s afghan, surrounded by delicate reveille of early morning birdsong, (and, yes, there remains that background sound of traffic), I sit listening, unassaulted.

Reluctantly, after some time, I open the computer, read an article in the New York Times about some testing that is being done around the transmission of this disease during ordinary conversation through respiratory droplets. Much has been said about coughing and sneezing and handwashing up til now, but, in seeking a fuller understanding, new experiments and studies are being explored. The piece of the article that intrigues me is the unsurprising finding that speaking softly might actually serve to protect the one you’re with, as those potential infection bearing droplets are projected more forcefully and in greater volume when speaking loudly.

How beautiful is that. Softness as protection. Not armour or attack as defence, but meekness as shield.

Blessed are the meek…

The harshness of these days is beginning to emerge – persons angry, protesting, YELLing through bullhorns; name-CALLing; finger pointing like a gun. From where I sit, I hear it as the low-lying background noise, like that traffic sound, of a culture at war with itself. For others it is front and center every day, bludgeoning.  All that noise creates its own kind of stress, makes many want/need to further withdraw at a time when we all long for/need the blessing of a community of mutual support and comfort. We yearn for a true coming together at this time when we are being asked to remain distant.

Some of that noise has come into my house. While for some it has erupted into their homes out of the stress and irritability created when living in close quarters, without meaningful outlet (that noise coming in the form of insipient snarkiness or outright lashing at those closest– been there, done that here too), for me, this time, it has come in the form of the computer meetings that my husband engages in, and me overhearing the drama of folks trying to come to consensus about the governance of our small village. I find I have little tolerance for that drama. The lack of harmony brings out the dissonance in me. (That being said, I greatly appreciate those for whom the work of diplomacy and governance is a calling and a gift)

During Sunday evening’s restorative yoga class, we were invited to set an intention for ourselves for the week. The word that bubbled up in me, bidden by that invitation, was Gentle. I wish to be gentle, with self, with others.

I wish to remain soft.

Softness as virtue can be a rather counter cultural ideal. A soft body is perceived as a weak one, a lazy one, an unhealthy one. A soft stance – one open to change- is seen as wishy washy or feeble rather than flexible and strong . We draw ‘hard’ lines. To be receptive to others is to be vulnerable, and vulnerability must be defended at all cost.

I think of the times I have frustrated others with my soft-spoken nature, been asked to speak up, to PROJECT. I think of the times I have felt painfully awkward when needing to yell my words to an elderly loved one. (Fyi, future loved one, Please don’t yell at me when I grow hard of hearing. Leave me to my blessed quietude). Today’s words redeem something in me, something I have innately known, perhaps, or simply inherently been—that softness is also simply a (good) way to be.  Softness of speech may not be a symptom of low confidence, but of innate gentleness.  Softness is now being revealed, as it always has been, as a way to take care of one another, a way to mitigate harm and to express concern, a means to cease projecting one’s own s**t onto the other.

I have just returned from checking on the morning’s bread dough, plunging my fingers into its softness up to their last knuckles. I am testing for softness, in a way, so that what is baked will not be too dense or too hard, but will offer a nourishment that is attainable, digestible, easily chewed. Perhaps becoming soft requires patience, time, willingness to sit still in hot places, to yield to what is– without becoming complacent or deflated, but being willing to grow.

But this is simply who I am- a soft voice that has always sought to do no harm. Perhaps I am not driven, but neither am I overbearing, I hope. Softness, I hope, allows me to hear, to listen—below the noise, beneath the harsh words. Softness allows me to take care, to do no harm, to not to bludgeon another, but to proffer, to tender, and, mostly, to receive.  

Speak softly, walk humbly…. and please put down the stick.


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