Once a man who liked my writing insisted on coming to meet me. He sat with me for several hours and towards the end of that time, I went and got a book written by David Whyte, The House of Belonging. I read a poem and the man broke down and wept. That is why he came to see me. Not for my words, but for the cleansing silence that followed the tears.
After he left and I went to bed, 3 transformers blew and we were without power for hours. He had called me after he left and said, “You really ARE a transmitter.” And so it is. But strangely, he wanted nothing further to do with me. It was too much.
I am not a spiritual teacher. I am a writer and a student of the Way. Anyone expecting me to teach via spoken words to them will be off course. Silence seems to be what works in my case. The strength of something beyond my ego and the person whom I am with.
My losses have opened up a chasm between me and the social world. I can’t remain in it for very long. I cling to writers like Irina Tweedie and Lizelle Reymonde, who learned that silence is pure gold.
On the human level, I am devastatingly alone. My son lives with me and he is silence itself. We have been stripped to the bone twice and find that nothing works for very long. All fixes are temporary.
Out of silence I arise. Into silence I return. Coming and going, I am alone with the Alone. At times that is hard to tolerate. At other times the peace rings around me in concentric circles and I accept the sorrows that have been given me this lifetime.
I am off of Facebook for a while. I am enjoying a break. This Note is not for everyone and that’s okay.