When I am silent, I fall into that place where everything is music.
Silence speaks, the contemplatives say. But really, I think, silence sorts. An ordering instinct sends people into the hush where the voice can be heard.
- from Virgin Time by Patricia Hampl
I'm back to thinking about the various types of silence. This Billy Collins poem.
I'm back to John Cage.
I'm back to Rolf Jacobsen:
The Silence Afterwards
by Rolf Jacobsen
Try to be done now
with deliberately provocative actions and sales statistics,
brunches and gas ovens,
be done with fashion shows and horoscopes,
military parades, architectural contests, and the rows of triple traffic lights.
Come through all that and be through
with getting ready for parties and eight possibilities
of winning on the numbers,
cost of living indexes and stock market analyses,
because it is too late,
it is way too late,
get through with and come home
to the silence afterwards
that meets you like warm blood hitting your forehead
and like thunder on the way
and the sound of great clocks striking
that make the eardrums quiver,
because words don't exist any longer,
there are no more words,
from now on all talk will take place
with the voices stones and trees have.
The silence that lives in the grass
on the underside of every blade
and in the blue spaces between the stones.
that follows shots and birdsong.
that pulls a blanket over the dead body
and waits in the stairs until everyone is gone.
that lies like a small bird between your hands,
the only friend you have.
- translator, Robert Bly
So today will be for silence and thinking about silence at the long end of winter, the silence of falling snow, and the silence after a holiday. But having our daughter around the house on a long weekend, that was lovely too.
We amused ourselves by attempting to take photos of her and Ace, at one point. It took him quite some time to settle in to his task, and ran around and around her.
But finally, he did, and they sat together for a time and looked lovely together.