Open A Feather Pillow and Let The Feathers Scatter
I once heard a rabbi tell a man to cut open a feather pillow in the street and let the feathers scatter. When the man returned, the rabbi told him to go gather every feather.
He couldn’t.
And the rabbi said gently, “So are the words once they leave you.”
That image has never left me.
Words can feel light while it is leaving us.
But its weight is carried by the world.
They settle.
They linger in a room.
They echo in a heart.
They become part of the atmosphere we live inside.
I keep thinking about that.
How a sentence can leave my lips and continue living somewhere I cannot follow.
And yet, there is a moment before sound.
A small, almost invisible pause where the word still belongs to the heart.
Where a reaction can soften.
Where dignity can be protected.
Where kindness can still enter the room first.
Rav Pam teaches that the tongue is only the pen.
It is the heart that writes.
And I feel that.
When the heart learns to see goodness, the words follow.
Maybe that is where this work begins — not in the mouth, but in the way we look at one another. Because every soul carries His breath. And perhaps guarding our words is not only about restraint, but about remembering: we are speaking about His children.
The Vilna Gaon teaches that every moment a person holds back from speaking negatively carries a reward beyond what even angels can comprehend.
Not because silence is empty.
But because sometimes nothing is said — and everything is transformed.
And I’m beginning to understand what can grow inside that pause.
Maybe that small pause —
before the word,
before the tone,
before the reaction —
is one of the holiest spaces we live inside.