Slowing down, waking up,
standing, breathing.
A heron glides down to the pond
and folds it’s wings.
Silence is a window.
Stillness is a door.
The heron flaps its wings
and flies.
I wrote this poem during my first stay in Plum Village in 2001. After leaving the stone meditation hall at dawn, I joined a row of eight brown-robed sisters standing in a line on the hill above the lotus pond. A heron appeared as we stood in silence watching the sky turn red and orange and gold.