Van Morrison came on while I was driving to work. I know – shocker. One of those songs that finds you in the shuffle. And I got to thinking.

The song that started it – © Van Morrison

Words have edges. Definitions. They do their best work in the middle of things — describing, explaining, connecting thought to thought. But at the far edges of feeling, they start to fail. Not because we haven’t found the right ones. Because the right ones just don’t exist.

I’m writing a eulogy for my best friend. (I’ll share it with you in a week) Trying to find language for what he meant. I’ll stand up there and do my best; I’ll speak my words. They won’t be enough. That’s not a failure of effort. It’s the nature of love. The heart is too full for sentences.

When words reach their limit, presence begins. You don’t fill the silence. You surrender to it. The sweetest walks are with someone who doesn’t need all the space filled with talk. Just movement, and soft light, and the world reminding you that silence isn’t absence. It’s its own kind of conversation.

Like Clarence’s sax solo amidst Bruce’s lyrics. When words disappear, we get closer to the truth.

My friend had a midwestern drawl that only came out when the feeling got too big for polish. In those moments, he’d just say: yeah . . . I get it.

Four words. Then silence. Understanding.

That’s the inarticulate speech of the heart. Not eloquence. Not the perfect phrase. Just the willingness to be there, fully, and let the silent spaces do what language can’t.

— Pete

Notes arrive on Sundays and some Wednesdays

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