The mountain is burning, more like smoldering, with a thick stream of smoke that billows to the heavens. And I lie awake. I’m reading and writing when I come across something I wrote a year or two ago, although it is older, I could have easily written it last week.
The Sound of Silence
“It is quiet, so quiet. I only hear a faint hum of the air coming out of the ducts in the floor and the ringing in my ears. Life is still. No noise, no breeze, no smoke from the neighbors burning, no smoke from wildfires.
In March when the temperature begins to warm, all is dry in Ixtlahuacan and the towns people begin to burn. It is not uncommon for them to burn entire fields, yards, piles of sticks or leaves. They burn in the early morning hours and sometimes during the cover of night. It’s so hot that we must sleep with our windows open, but oh…the smoke. As strange as it may sound…today I woke, not because of the smoke, but because of the lack of smoke.
There is no breeze in this climate controlled room. No birds chirping, dogs barking, air breaks rumbling as the big trucks come down the mountain. It’s still, quiet and unusual.
When I first traveled as a missionary to Hong Kong and then again in Mexico, I remember being warned about the noise and the smells. I never thought I would need to be warned about the lack of odors and the silence. Oh how the tables turn.”