The Wells of Silence

I love discovering rubies of wisdom, finding them buried deep in unlikely hiding spots of our culture, our kids, our memories. Simon and Garfunkel sent me reeling this morning with the poignancy of these words:

And the sign said, "The words of the prophets
are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls."

And whisper'd in the sounds of silence.

When my racing thoughts had me thinking about silence this morning, I found myself in one of those brain-exploding states. How do I think about something that involves me ceasing to think? How do I learn the practice of silence when I there is so much I want to understand in order to do it rightly?

I read, in Kathleen Norris' Vocabulary of Faith, a story from her years as a teacher. Her description of "the silent game" she played with her students wasn't far from the one I, too, remember playing. For 30 seconds or so, she'd allow for rumbling, restlessness, shouting and noise-making. The din would reach an almost unbearable level, but when she raised her hand, it was understood that silence was the goal. Some kids loved it. Some kids struggled for stillness. Others still, found the silence to be scary - "like [they] where waiting for something to happen."

I had assumed the game was always just a ploy to get a classroom full of rowdiness to settle into peace. But, Norris' words brought new light to the darkness of that kind of silence. If we stop listening to the instruction of a Sovereign voice, we eliminate the opportunity for a kind of quiet that teaches.

It's real easy for me to get wrapped up in a fast-paced life that crowds out the chance for the sound of silence to last long enough to instruct. I long for moments of quiet to pepper the hubbub of my daily, to remind me that in stopping, I am priming myself for learning.