We sat in hushed awe, in a small alcove off the trail. Though there was a crowd that included several dogs and children, each of us fell silent when we approached the clusters, hanging from the large canopy of eucalyptus trees. Brown and leaf-like, they hardly appeared to move, but upon closer inspection, slight flutters and flashes of brilliant orange dazzled us. This is where the Monarch butterflies from the north spend their winters.
There were logs about, set in rows as if in a makeshift amphitheater. Tourists gathered and sat reverently, like parishioners in a church pew. Cameras clicked softly and docents whispered answers to questions posed. It was a lovely scene, marred only slightly by some squabbling dogs, which my four year old nephew quickly shushed. I was amazed at how content and quiet the children were, as just moments before they were rushing breathless though the trails, all giggly and boisterous. But there was something almost holy about this place, and each person instinctively understood it.
There is truth to the expression silence is golden. And in this world we have so few opportunities for true silence that it is almost shocking and eerie when even the white noise is quiet and all is still. But practicing the art of silence allows one to just be. Just be still. Just be still with her thoughts, or her breath. How often do we give ourselves the gift of silence? Not nearly often enough. I felt grateful for this beautiful gift of nature, and this reminder that I need to make time for silence. 
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