I used to believe I was a good listener.
In meetings, at home, with friends—I gave people time, maintained eye contact, responded with thoughtful nods. But over the years, I came to understand something quietly humbling: listening is not about hearing words. It’s about receiving presence. And that, I was still learning.
She leans from sky to fragile thread,
Not to be seen, but to keep them fed.
No hymns are sung, now vows are said –
Yet time bows low where her wings tread.
In a cradle of breath, on bamboo sway,
She brings the dawn in her own way.
Not with thunder, not with flame,
But with a hush that has no name.
Who says the sacred lies in stone?
Here, in silence, love has flown.
And if you pause, the wind might say—
She’s held the world in beak and clay.