So then I walk by sound, not by sight. Movement makes its way in a sort of clunky unison, not synchronized, but together. Hinged wooden seats thump as they rise and fall, kneelers drop to the floor, robes rustle. Heavy footsteps paired with shuffling ones trace their steps from one end of the chapel to the other, the length so needfully punctuated with a simplicity of empty, yet inhabited, time. Each sound nudges me to the next thing, nearly without thought or effort.
The reading draws to its close and we join voices in the antiphon:
My sheep listen to my voice;
I know them, and they follow me.