One evening I was fast asleep in our tiny two room apartment when suddenly the phone began to ring. So I stumbled across the darkened space and I picked up the receiver and I heard a strange voice telling me that my father had been rushed into the hospital. Naturally I went to be by his side and for 14 days and nights my mother and I sat right next to him, urging him on. But one quiet Sunday morning the zigzagging line on the screen next to his bed flattened out and two men in black came to carry my father away. And I suddenly realized as my parents only child, it was now all up to me to console my grieving mother, to organize the memorial service and the obituary, to notify friends, to alert the banks. It was really the busiest time I've known. So what did I do? Well, one morning, when I was sure that my mother was well looked after, I got into my car and I drove for four hours along narrow winding roads up the Californian coastline. And I got out in a place of thrumming silence high above the sea and sat on a bench overlooking the water. I let my anxious thoughts recede and gave myself over to everything around me. The bells tolling now and then down the road, the water pooling around the rocks, the bees buzzing around the lavender, the wind whistling through the pampas grass. Finally, after two hours completely washed clean by this kind of living silence, I got back into my car and drove home, knowing exactly what I had to do and say. I trust the deepest kind of silence because it doesn't leave room for argument. Let me put that differently. It's hard to doubt what hasn't been said. Silence doesn't ask us to prove or disprove a thing. Words so often cut us in two. I believe this, and you believe that I voted for that person. You voted for this one. I know I'm in the right, which means you must be in the wrong. But when we're joined together in a moment of silence, we're united somewhere far deeper than our assumptions or our ideologies. And I know many of you find this through yoga or meditation or other such disciplines. But for any of us who find those a little daunting or difficult, the beauty of silence is it's available to everyone, wherever you happen to be, and in this world that feels ever more divided and despairing, nothing gives me greater hope than whatever silence we can find and share. You all know it's not always like this. I'm sure many of you have been on the receiving end of a sullen silence. A threatening silence, A silence that breaks your heart open in a room that's suddenly empty. Unfortunately, most of us know how to make silence a weapon or a shield to draw somebody out or to draw her in. Where were you last night? The silence that follows can be worse than a lie and even than the truth. But the silence I'm talking about is something positive and alive that you can almost touch. For me, it's like stepping out of your social skyscraper self and wandering out into a vast open meadow, getting out of your head and coming back to your senses. Just about all of us are bombarded by more agitation and distraction than we know what to do with. And it's intensifying with every passing moment. And all we're crying out for is a way to cut through the noise. Sirens down on the street, the updates streaming in those drills constructing yet another hundred story high rise. The chatter in our heads. We can't hear ourselves think. We can't even hear what that friend is saying. Somebody's cell phone is ringing. Sorry, I've got to take this. Did you hear what just happened in the Middle east last night? The airwaves fill with curses and opinions and predictions and judgments, and all we're longing for is some blessed silence. I've been lucky enough for almost half a lifetime now, 34 years, to find a kind of pulsing silence by going to stay for two weeks or two days or even in the wake of my father's death, two hours in a Catholic retreat house. Which is funny because I'm not even a Christian and I'm not really a religious person. But as soon as I step into that wide awake silence, all the worries that have been clacking away at me on the long drive up, all the plans and debates and arguments, they all fall away. And I can hear myself not think better than that. I can be filled up with everything around me that's much larger than I will ever be. The breeze and the birdsong and the receding whoosh of the ocean. And down below I notice things that I would never see when my mind is filled with words. The light on the water or those rabbits scuffling through the undergrowth. And of course it's easiest of all if you're in a beautiful natural setting. But even if you're in a busy city. Just step into a church or sit quietly in one corner of your room without your devices for 20 minutes and you can taste something of the same. We're really most alive when we're silent, because we're most responsive to everything around us. And after I tried this medicine of sitting quietly a few times, I noticed something strange. I was thinking much more fondly about my friends when I wasn't saying a word. In fact, often they seemed closer to me when I was sitting in silence than when they were talking to me in the same room. I could also register exactly what I should be doing six months from now, which is precisely what is usually drowned out when my monkey mind is fretting about what I should do six minutes from now. I really feel that the deepest part of us lies beyond all words. And again, I know this isn't 100% guaranteed. Sometimes, when I make that four hour drive up to the retreat house, all I hear all night long is the rain pattering on the roof and the aged heater groaning in the winter cold and the very foundations of the cabin in which I'm sitting, shaking in the wind. But silence so reliably offers me a sense of release that I realize it's the best investment I will ever make. Because when reality makes a house call, as it will more than once in every life, when suddenly the phone does begin to ring in the middle of the night, or nurses race into the room to feel for a pulse, the only thing you have to draw upon is your inner savings account, which for me really consists of such inner resources as you've gathered, probably just by sitting quietly alone. And I realize this can all sound a little otherworldly, but to me it's as practical as going to the health club, the emotional or mental health club. Silence doesn't ask me to believe anything or to fret about non believers. And it really touches something inside me that no scripture can ever reach. When your mind is silent, wrote Thomas Merton, who as a monk lived on closest terms with silence for 27 years, then the forest suddenly becomes magnificently real. Your phone is ringing right now, I'm sure. Cable news is reporting some breaking development. Talk radio is filling up with responses to that development. You're worried about where you have to be this afternoon. You're fretting about why Susan said that hurtful thing to you last night. I hear you. But when you fall in love, or when somebody you love dies, or when you step out into that sunrise, the truest words that come to you may be none at all. We're all worried, as we should be, about the climate crisis and wars and technologies that are rac outside our control. But not far away is a place where debates are beside the point and where actually we gather the reserves we need to deal with wildfires and the refugee crisis and shattered economies. A place where we hear an intelligence that isn't artificial at all. So take a deep breath and step for a moment or two hours into a place where no words are required, nothing bad can come of it, and something good, possibly very helpful, may likely emerge. Maybe we can just all try this together by joining in a long moment of saying nothing. After a long week of words. What a moment to share. Thank you so very much.
