I have been a person who defines herself in relation to others. My needs are usually put second to those around me, like my daughter or my siblings. At some point, I realize how bad an idea that is, but it is often prompted by anger. I have learned that anger in me always means that a need I have is not being met. (It also means something that is happening is making me feel like I am not enough, which tends to intersect with my needs not being met.)
I own all of that. It is mine to change. So lately, I have been changing that, actively. Like any new choice or skill, it takes practice. I have run the gambit from doing it so badly that I needed a lawyer, right up to graciously taking time to reflect and find my silence.
In fact, I am called to silence more and more. I was a woman who liked to get out and do things – try new restaurants, travel, go to concerts, see a play, work hard, keep my house to a standard. I was a perpetual motion machine!
Now, as I begin working on my vision, listening to the source is more important than going to a menu of options and trying to set goals. If I look at my creation lists of the past, they are more like wishes than they are reflective of the flow of the current of consciousness. Some of them I laugh at now.
If I listen to my silence, it is longing for more silence. I have joined a new community, and what draws me is the silence. We sit and meditate. We connect, but it is not over the mundane. I look at my work, and I create silence in issues as they are shared with me. In that silence, the next thing that is needed arises. From the silence, all that needs to be arises. It does not need me to force it. It does not need me to be its stick.
This poem speaks to the insight that is coming to me.
The waves of the mind
demand so much of Silence.
But she does not talk back
does not give answers nor arguments.
She is the hidden author of every thought
She speaks only one word.
And that word is this very existence.
No name you give Her
can embrace Her.
Mind throws itself at Silence
demanding to be let in.
But no mind can enter into
Her radiant darkness
Her pure and smiling
The mind hurls itself
into sacred questions.
But Silence remains
unmoved by tantrums.
She asks only for nothing.
But you won’t give it to Her
because it is the last coin
in your pocket.
And you would rather
give her your demands than
your sacred and empty hands.
Everything leaps out in the celebration of mystery,
but only nothing enters the sacred source,
the silent substance.
Only nothing gets touched and becomes sacred,
realizes its own divinity,
realizes what it is
without the aid of a single thought.
Silence is my secret.