Читать книгу Recital of Love - Keren Dibbens-Wyatt - Страница 11

Silence

WHEN THE HAILSTONES COME, hot and heavy, the silence falls too, between each orb. The silence of falling air is louder to my ears than the clattering of ice. The silence is white and deep and broad. It covers everything in an avalanche of purity. All is covered, mantled in the glory of silence. Noise especially. For where noise is, there is a covering surround of silence, or the noise would not sound. Where the dark is, the light waits to engulf it. Where the chaos is, the order waits to redeem it. Where the sound is, the silence waits also, patiently to cascade and descend, to flow into every corner and around every obstacle.

Just as there is more air in a jar of marbles than there is glass, or more space in a handful of sand than there is silicon, so there is more silence in a cacophony than there is noise. Listen for it, look for it, let it become the language of your heart: not a strange other tongue, but as natural to you as any speech.

For silence and space is what gives my universe her shape, what defines her, and it would be well for my prophets and people to become acquainted with these things, the building blocks of creation. Make friends therefore, with emptiness, and come to know nothing, and you will be full to bursting with new life and sated by wonder.

Silence is charged with, rings with, the power of the unsaid. It gathers it in, pulls it, condenses around it until it must be unleashed as song—released into creative acts. When empty it begins again, reloading, discharging, like a pupil constantly dilating, or a flower opening and closing. Like the ventricles of a beating heart. Like the very breath of God.

Selah