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Look at the sky. That’s enough – Rainer Maria Rilke

we write in dusk what
morning might understand …

… he’d penned thus far. The sky now very pale blue, and crossed by pink floss, he’d wondered – ‘is that a satellite, or a star?’

And in the way of such things, stillness descended as it often does when the answer doesn’t really matter, nor whether satellite-or-star is near or far.

And from time to time, amid the gentle reverie, he became aware of illuminated windows, some with orange glow, one a string of white fairy light, to the right a flickering quadrant, and several with the kind of log-fire-warmth one sees mid-winter through the steamed-up panes of an Edinburgh bar.

Fleetingly he wondered whether any behind those windows were ever aware of his being at his window – from over there, from just beyond entirely clear focus, afar.

And then, on Thursday morning, aware of windows having featured in his deeply restful dreams, he found a small sage green envelope had been pushed under his door. There was a thoughtfulness about the sort of chosen stationery, with the slightest trace of scent about it, for special sorts of notes – he’d seen once or twice before. And – with quiet delight – he’s contemplated the content of that note now, for a week or two, or more:

To the one over there who watched
the sky when I did, thank you for being
a quiet lantern in the dusk. We never
spoke, but your stillness reached me –
and towards the end of a frenetic day
it mattered, and quietened me, more
than I can say

Sometimes he was mildly aware of an angel at his shoulder. Tonight, in a quiet light, he heard her whisper

You looked at the sky
like it was enough

It was

..

Sometimes we meet ourselves in the gaze of another, across silence

There are moments when the soul touches the world, and the world gently touches back

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes,
but in having new eyes – Marcel Proust