The Weight of Stillness

The smell of dry earth after a long drought is a sharp, metallic scent that clings to the back of the throat. It is the smell of waiting. When I was a child, I would press my palms against the rough, sun-baked bark of the orchard trees, feeling the vibration of the wind as it hummed through the branches. There is a specific tension in that stillness—a held breath before the movement begins. We often mistake silence for emptiness, but it is actually a heavy, velvet cloak that settles over the skin. It is the feeling of being anchored, of roots digging deep into soil that has forgotten the rain. We are taught to look for the grand gestures, but the truth of a moment is usually found in the small, quiet pauses where the body finally stops searching and simply exists. Does the earth remember the weight of everything that has ever rested upon it?

Dawid Theron has captured this quiet endurance in his image titled On the Trellises. It reminds me of that same suspended breath found in the heat of the afternoon. Can you feel the stillness resting there with you?