In silence

I don’t think I appreciate silence as much as it deserves to be appreciated. But I’ve been paying attention to it. I’ve been educating myself lately.

It’s only in silence that most thoughts come out from the dark, much like cautious, furry little animals with oversized eyes and pointy ears.

It’s only in silence that I see pure simplicity of everyday objects: tall, transparent water glasses, black leather shoes, curious lines on the palm of my hands, peaceful setting of books on the shelves, continuous flow of air from an open window.

It’s only in silence that I overhear short conversations people have with their dogs as they walk outside my room.

It’s only in silence that I listen to Brahms and remember my old gardens with pomegranate trees which were too easy to climb.

It’s only in silence that I can be fully absorbed by stories told by determined writers from previous centuries.

It’s only in silence that I think of the gift of existence and see green inhales and white exhales - miracle of my own energy, my only breath.

It’s only in silence that I acquire more importance, maintain my meaning and settle into pleasure of the temperature of my body and kindness of my being.

Silence has funny ways of finding my hiding places.



Extract from an old letter to a friend, never sent.