I have heard it said that silence is God’s favorite language. It is a wordless kind of prayer, an experience
of presence, and sacred patience. There is no evaluation of behavior or agenda of needs . . .
only quiet listening.
I have been to
silent retreats in a variety of ways over the last few years. I have gone to national parks to hike alone,
stay alone and eat alone. I have
attended a retreat center where everyone “kept silence” together. And I have spent time at a little place called
The Quiet House on a ranch in West Texas where silence was profound - literally no voiced sound unless I or some other
forest creature made it. What is the
same in each setting is that something rests in me when I reduce the stimulus
to the simple beauty and fascination of nature.
When I stop my own voice, I can listen to what my heart knows is true.
I remember the
first meditation retreat I attended. It
was a 5 day event and I knew very little of what “sitting” in meditation was
all about. The first evening we “sat” together in a circle – some on the floor
and some in chairs. The leader asked us
to keep the same spots for the entire 5 days.
I thought to myself, “That sounds a little silly. What possible
difference could it make where we sit?”
The second day
we were to have a choice between 3 consecutive “sits” or one “sit” followed by some
basic instruction on meditation. I was
immediately sure that instruction was what I needed, however, when we arrived the
next morning, the facilitator announced
that since this group was so centered (what did that mean?) we would all stay
for the 3 consecutive “sits”. I panicked
. . . and silently yelled, “That is a
whole hour !”
And yet, I was
surprised . . . once I let go of
evaluating this experience I had never had and simply gave myself to it . . . I
found it calming and comforting.
I learned other
things that week, too. I grew to look
forward to the shuffling and settling of each individual each day. I became familiar and tenderly patient with each
person’s level of comfort. Something in
me was connected to each person in the circle. Then, on the last day the person who had been next
to me all week, but to whom I had not spoken, smiled at me and said, “How am I
going to do this tomorrow when you aren’t there?”
I learned that
when we stop the noise – both outside and inside – we open the way to learn a
new kind of communication. Maybe we
learn to pay attention to ourselves and to each other in a new way. . . . and
this level of listening is a profound need for anyone whose child dies. The old
ways are no longer available and we need to pay attention in a new way, to be
aware in a new way and to hear in a new way. Surprisingly, silence is teaching me.
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