On the gift of Silence
When I was a little three year old kid in black-and-white saddle shoes, I went to a Montessori school. I adored my teacher from Sri Lanka in her beautiful saris. (I still remember her teaching how to write the number 2, through a chalk drawing of a swan!) She also every afternoon gave us the gift of making silence. (We tend to think that children are not capable of quiet reflection, but really, the important work of childhood is to know oneself - children do in fact need opportunities for silence.)
We'd sit in a circle together, and calm our wiggly bodies down, and begin to listen: to the cars outside, the clock on the wall ticking, leaves rustling in the wind, a dog barking in the distance, the sound of our breathing. She'd prompt us to listen to the tiniest sound, the sound furthest away, the closest sound. Even today, some 46 years later, I can remember the gift of deep peace she gave us.
This evening we are about half-way through the Triduum - the long three-day Mass recalling the events of Christ's passion. Just as we don't engage in the busy-ness of everyday life when at the usual Sunday Mass, we maintain silence over these three days, even though we are at intervals back at home in our every day life. It's a time for hearing one's own thoughts, for reflection, and adjustments to be made as necessary. So, the tv is staying off, and I'm keeping mostly to myself, and finding peace in the storm of life.
Pax et bonum!