Nisha Purushotham

As a retired English teacher of 30 years, my beloved grandmother Mercy valued precise speech. Under her watchful gaze, I practiced naming the world.  With great effort, I strove for precision and grammatical correctness.

The work of great writers continues to be a balm and clarion call for me. I marvel at writers' ability to name what we know but cannot yet articulate. I sink deep into this grounding resonance.

Still, something has shifted in recent years. As I grow older, I value more and more that which speaks without words:

The rainbow which appears against a concentration of sun lit blue black clouds.

    The felled tree, once source of life and shelter, now decomposing into a bed of     earth.

The long silence in which a friend's long dormant anguish rises to the surface.

    A crowded subway train where ipods, kindles, newspapers, and blackberries         anesthetize us from sensing our fellow travelers.

When I listen to that which speaks without words, meanings penetrate my consciousness before rational or habitual interpretations deflect them. In these moments, I am offered an unadulterated glimpse at the possibilities and obstacles to living fully in the world.

To what will you listen today?