I have nothing to say about death, or loss, or pain or suffering. Those things lie well beyond my words. My understanding is silent. I have nothing to say.
I will accept this reminder that in all other things too I have nothing to say and to remember this is not what people seek of me – there is no value I can add that is not already there.
Perhaps I may share what I notice? – like the first hint of sunlight today that forms the lightest shadow on my page as I write this, or the way the sunlight creates contrast on the old town buildings I can see through the trees; how, as a robin feeds on my crumbs, I hear the peculiar cry of a gull and the croaks of crows that pester a buzzard overhead. Maybe I can notice, suggest or intimate, what is already there?
“I have v little to offer you” maybe the best we have to offer. Perhaps the best I can be is content free. A sparrow is eating from my plate now and I am reassured to feel I’m no longer a threat. I have nothing more to say.