Once upon a time, there was always something to say. Now, saying it seems a transgression against the silence we so desperately need. Silence can heal or cure anything; especially the silence of the grave. To write from that kind of silence, without breaking that silence; to make ourselves felt and known from Hamlet’s undiscovered country — is that not the only writing there is left for us to do? […]
If you lived nearby, I might let you borrow a book. Or, even better, you could stay and browse and read a while. You could sit or stand; you could kneel or crouch. You could wonder at the strange figure sitting at this desk. Is he real? That would be for you to decide, although I think the answer might vary from one moment to the next. Are you real? […]
I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strange, I am ungrateful to these teachers. — Kahlil Gibran, Sand and Foam. . Ideally we will hold no opinion, and therefore have none to defend. For what’s an opinion but one more way of living in, and clinging to, the past? We may believe nothing has changed since we arrived at the […]
Stars and low-racing clouds. A spirit at the switch, grinning fall. My eldest brother is alive again. He’s forgotten to bring his driver’s license. Standing beside our mother’s old car, I tell him I’d better drive, though we have no particular destination in mind. With the arrival of rain and cooler temperatures, I’m reminded that the easiest way to adjust to seasonal weather changes is to spend as much time […]
The rise and fall. Doomed to fail are nations founded on the belief that people can take what they want, and sell what doesn’t belong to them. Likewise, individual lives. Throw it away. Out of sight, out of mind? Or, out of sight, out of our minds? Thoreau’s journal, February 19, 1854. Many college text-books which were a weariness and a stumbling-block when studied, I have since read a little […]
Having nothing to say, having no message to relate — such days are to be savored. What is sleep but the flowering of one’s life during the day? What is day but the flowering of one’s sleep? Or, to put it another way, we sleep what we sow. Cleaned the blinds on our seven tall south-facing windows, ahead of bringing in our houseplants for the winter. Read the eighth chapter […]
Met with no traffic during this morning’s run through the neighborhood. Back in the house before four-thirty. A starry sky, with a bright, waning, super-blue moon. Air clean and free of wildfire smoke. Spanish. Read a page of Juan Valera’s Pepita Jiménez. Italian. Read a passage from a translation of Homer’s Iliad. How much of effort is really the reaffirmation of one’s ego-identity? Axe, muscle, gravity. But when I chop […]
Each time they met, they bowed to one another and uttered not a word. They were old by then. When one of them died, they went on bowing just the same. And somehow when the other died, their bowing remained. Cane in hand, I thought, I’ve known men who were just like trees. . [ 1794 ]
Silence isn’t “one of those things.” It’s always present, and it never ends. What ends is our attention. Fortunately, silence is always there when we return. I wouldn’t say it’s waiting, but, then again, who knows, it might be. We can say all sorts of things about silence. We can say it pours like honey, Or that it melts like chocolate. We might liken it to the depths of the […]
William Michaelian 