by Allison Gale

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I sat in silence at God’s feet and listened to early morning silence. In my stillness and quietness, I became aware that there were only two sounds that broke the silence – one that marked it and one that decorated it.

A clock methodically documented the seconds as they clicked off, driven by its internal mechanism. There was no freedom. There was no variation. Just the rhythm of the lack of music. The same sound minute after hour after day after year. Arduous in its legalistic melancholy. A prisoner to the bomb strapped to its back. Metronome for a predetermined droning pace. What is he marching toward? What is he marching away from? What is he waiting for? Why does the freedom of imperfection frighten him so?

And I heard a bird – free from worry and concern for times gripping restraint. Not bound by duty or obligation or expectation. Free to sing her beautiful song, full throat and unrehearsed, from a heart that rejoices in the abundant glory of now. Melodic rhythm celebrating life. Lost in freedom. Delighting in the moment.

The choice became so clear to me. My choice. To register the minutes or rejoice in the moments. The rhythm of bondage or the rhythm of freedom.