Being Silent

It's not my job to be silent, not this time. I'm here to sit with others, and to watch and wait and listen. Five times a day someone comes to the little house I'm sharing with John and Mary and for a brief while I am witness to the growth which their own silence is fostering. What brave and beautiful lives people lead.

This is big sky country, spacious and wide. The quiet comes easily.

The hills are steep and dotted with matagouri, wild briar, spiny spaniard and thistles, but here and there are what I am looking for. The yearling steers look warily as I step from rock to rock stooping to fill my hat with the large white mushrooms. It takes a few minutes to gather a couple of kilograms, and a bit longer to pick my way back across the creek and the barbed wire fence with them. Treasure waits where I don't expect it.

Nightfall. The sunset falls through the huge, old windows. There are sixteen of us around the edge of the room with our backs to the sky and our faces to the candle. Sit with your back straight, I say. Try and be as symmetrical as you can. Be aware of your body, but don't think unduly about it. Notice your breath.

And there is a deeper silence. A silence within the silence. The silence only possible in the company of other silent people. The silence in which we glimpse that which we are pursuing, so hopelessly, with all the noise.

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