When it grows loud in the corners of everything and the walls of the soul quake just a bit, I go and sit in the soil where the corn grows by His certain goodness and right out of the earth.
Where the children run in their bare feet and bend to know leaves.
I come into the stillness of the praising things and feel the sun on the nape and I come to breathe deep again, the children running down straight rows and into the sky. The dog presses into me.
A bit of quietness might be born here on the edge of the corn.
For just long enough, all that weighs slips away and there is this rest in the wide open Grace of God, the dog panting happy and close.