Returning to silence

There I was, lying in dew-damp grass, early-morning sun above, six horses grazing nearby. One always kept me in sight, eventually came over to inhale my scent and brush me with his. No danger — back to grazing. Immersed in the sounds of teeth ripping and grinding, nostrils snorting, and insides burbling, I entered into a state where there was no me, no horse, no grass, no time of day.

Each time I resolve to be still, I sink a little deeper into the unknown. Maybe “I sink” isn’t the best way to describe it, since there’s no one sinking when busyness morphs into stillness. “Silence makes us whole if we let it,” writes Thomas Merton, monk and poet. “It helps draw together the scattered and dissipated energies of a fragmented existence.”

Meditation shows the Way — even if, as in my case, it’ll take a few years to decipher the sign posts. Would you like to . . .  ?

• Sit still for a few minutes with eyes closed. Feel the ground under your feet, the seat or cushion through thighs, buttocks, and back. Nothing special. Turn the mind’s attention to the places where skin and muscles touch and are being touched.
• Now listen … to nothing in particular, simple hear  body sounds: breath flowing or heart beating, stomach gurgling or whatever. Do this for a few minutes. When the mind wanders away, bring it back, gently … and listen some more.
• Listen below internal sounds, the way a diver might leave the turbulent ocean surface and sink below, where all’s quiet. With each out-breath, allow your outer layers to soften a little. Sink a little deeper.
• Release (let go of) anything you might be hoping for or expecting to achieve with this exercise. Be patient. Stillness is ever-present, always has been, always will be; before you were born and after you’re gone …. inside this room, the sky above, the earth below.

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Merton, T. (1979). Love and Living. New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, p. 34.