When silence becomes the loudest truth
Dear Wanderer,
“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils…”
Wordsworth saw what solitude truly is — not an absence, but a quiet presence that opens the heart. In aloneness, he found beauty: flowers dancing, clouds drifting, the soul expanding.
Today, I thought of him as I stood before an old windmill. Its blades no longer turn; it has withstood storms, rains, and now rusts slowly with time. Grass and wildflowers keep it company, and sometimes a bird lands, whispering the stories of the skies. Yet, like Wordsworth’s wandering cloud, the windmill is not diminished by its solitude. It is strengthened by it.
Donc , On doit apprécier la solitude. Peut-être tu penses que si tu gardes le silence dans la vie, personne ne te remarquera et tu deviendras un moulin oublié dans l’arrière-plan. Au contraire, le silence parle fort. Il annonce ton courage et ta prudence. Comme ce moulin, je reste debout, les pieds ancrés dans la roche au-dessous, et je confronte le vent qui souffle dans toutes les directions — face à face.
As we grow older, we learn this truth. The noise fades: the urgency of crowded nights out, the rush of voices. In their place comes something richer — a quiet evening, a book, a familiar show. Solitude ceases to be frightening. It becomes a companion.
“And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.”
Le moulin m’a soufflé que la solitude n’est point faiblesse. Elle nous apaise, nous rend immobiles et inébranlables, sans crainte — et dans ce calme profond s’éveille une joie plus intime, plus pure.
From the errant to the errant,
D. Orlando