A quiet day. The visiting family has taken the T to Boston, to the Kennedy Library and Faneuil Hall. It is the hottest day of the season, but there is a breeze. I’m very grateful for the family that is here and for the family not here; for the humid weather that is part of the seasons of New England; for our grandpet; for the solitude that is never lonely.
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Once again I have allowed watching the news to worm its way into my daily schedule. I know what’s going on; I don’t need the salacious details. The News Hour is enough; I don’t need breaking news from the other channels. Thankfully I don’t watch much regular TV, but I can get hooked on the Red Sox. In the most obvious way, turning on the TV breaks into silence. And don’t forget solitude and simplicity! Here’s what Thomas Merton said about TV in New Seeds of Contemplation, published in 1962. I am certainly no judge of television, since I have never watched it. All I know is that there is a sufficiently general agreement among men whose judgment I respect, that commercial television is degraded, meretricious, and absurd. Certainly, it would seem that TV could become a kind of unnatural surrogate for contemplation: a completely inert subjection to vulgar images, a descent to a subnatural passivity rather than an ascent to a supremely active passivity in understanding and love. It would seem that television should be used with extreme care and discrimination by anyone who might hope to take interior life seriously. After letting go of my writing project yesterday, I found myself letting go of a bunch of papers stacked on my desk. There must be a correlation between the two. I need neither project nor papers. If pressed, most of us would say we want a simpler life. But this feels like a major step, not a cliché. Although getting rid of papers simplifies the stuff in my house, releasing the writing project simplifies my life. On a practical level, it frees up time; the physical writing time, but more importantly, the psychological time consumed by thinking, fretting, delaying, and so on. I don’t mean to be overly dramatic, but I feel free, I have my life back. Hmm, having my life back is no small obsession. When things are amiss, we lose our essence. Our purpose is out of sync, we are out of touch with our mission, our meaning, with how we are to spend the precious time we have been given. Today, at this moment I am in sync. Knitting, visiting, sitting in the silence is feeding my simple soul. I am full. It is enough. There are so many ways of thinking about silence. There’s the silence when we are alone. At home we can turn off our machines--the TV, dishwasher, and even the radio. We can go off in the woods or walk along the beach, where at least there are fewer city type noises. Turning off the chatter in our heads is another challenge, one that I’ve written about often. Today I’ve been thinking about being silent when I’m ‘talking’ with someone else. Sounds like an oxymoron. To be silent with someone involves not paying attention to those external physical noises or to that chatter in my head so I can listen. By listening, I mean being very quiet, saying very little, and offering ‘wait time’ to allow the other person to formulate and express fully what he or she wants to say. It is amazing when I wait in silence, when I don’t fill the void. The person goes deeper, expresses more truthfully, and speaks freely; my listening becomes more profound, honest, and open. The men are here again at the middle table at the café. At one end they are joined by a woman who is holding forth. At the other end a young girl, accompanied by an older man, is writing. They don’t seem to be aware that they are in the midst of this sacred space. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Yesterday I took Bus 7 to Fiesole and walked up the hill to the Monastery of St. Francis. It is one of my quiet places when I come to Florence, as the Feltrinelli Café RED is one of my noisy places. The monk’s dormitory is my favorite here at the monastery. Up the stairs and there there are the their cells, eight of them. It is all I need, except for heat in the winter. I dream of living there, as another person in another era, but also as me, transported, leaving everything behind, without a care in the world. This dream, like all dreams, can catapult me toward finding my bliss, discovering my NOW. The easy step to articulate, but difficult to carry out, is that I must leave my stuff behind. Not much will fit into my cell at the monastery. Without the stuff there would be less to do, less cleaning and straightening, less projects to choose from. Leaving obligations behind is more complicated. Would I really want day after day filled with silence, solitude and simplicity? For now this monastery overlooking the Arno valley and the Duomo is my muse.
There are definitely times when I wish I were deaf—when passing a leaf blower, when the TV is blaring violence, when someone is talking on and on and on and on. You know the instances. Silence is about having the choice to hear what I want to hear and turn off what I don’t. This morning I had my hearing tested at Mass Eye and Ear in Concord. In the three years since my previous checkup, my hearing has not deteriorate at all. “Come back in two to three years,” I was told. Today I am grateful that I am not deaf. I like hearing the silence. After taking a look at the debates last night, it came to me that my call is to be peaceful and positive in thought, word, and deed. Maybe one of the most important gift we older people offer to the world is to live our life with a peaceful mind, few words, and carefully selected deeds. Of course this is not way of politicians. And then there is the age problem. Many standing there on the stage were old (will be the same for the Democrats). Many would be celebrating their 70th birthday in the White House. 70 isn’t old for some things, but I think it is for a president. I understand politicians have to talk, but do wish they could ponder the quote by Robert Benchley from www.gratefulness.org that I put on this blog yesterday. “Drawing on my fine command of the language, I said nothing.” Enough. I will say nothing more. Have you ever made up (as in your imagination) something that wasn’t true at all? Made up how someone was reacting to something you’ve said or done? And then, upon reflection realized you have no basis for the story you fabricated? You just made it up, just created an imaginary tale about what was going on in someone else’s head. I assume you can answer ‘yes’. It’s very human thing to do, but one that we can work to eradicate. For me, it’s part of the challenge to live in silence, the silence of no gossip, no judgments, no rumors. We can start by being honest and intentional about what we do. That, in and of itself eliminates much worry about what others might be thinking, and from there we can come to understand that we are not responsible for other people’s worries. Case in point. The other day I started making up someone’s response to Very Grateful, the book I wrote about my mom and me. Why? Because I didn’t hear from them when I thought I ‘should’. This got me considering my intention and honesty in writing the book. Yes, I wrote with honest intention; over a period of time I prayerfully and carefully considered what I was writing and how it would be received by others. When I did hear from the person, I realized I had been entirely wrong in those original imaginings. But more than that, I was grateful for the opportunity to separate what I had written with how someone else might respond to it. Morning coffee is the most sacred time of the day for me. This morning the weather was warm enough for me to sip and gaze while sitting out on the patio. At 5:30 the birds didn’t interrupt the quiet rustle of the trees, nor did the headless moles (they have no eyes) startle me as they skittered silently by my feet. I don’t expect the same quiet sacredness when later in the day I take my walk. Of course I will hear cars passing by. Although I won’t like it, at least I’ll anticipate the presences of leaf blowers as fall comes to New England. What I will never anticipate is what happened this morning--a dog snapping at me from a passing red SUV as I walked along one of my favorite country roads. This little dog was watching and waiting, head sticking out the back window. I am still upset about it; my reptilian brain is still responding. Oh, I know it wasn’t personal, I know I’m not the only walker he/she snapped at, I know it is easier to control one’s children than one’s dog. I know all this because I have owned several little yipping dogs. Although I also know I have to let go of this feeling of being attacked, I sure don’t have to like it. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being most offensive, there are many louder and more grating sounds than a yipping dog. So why is this one right up there as a ten? Because I was surprised and startled, and felt personally attacked. It has to do with context. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve pretty much chosen to stay away from the news, and particularly from politics. It isn’t easy as the presidential primary in the state just north of us is heating up, and as the debates have started. I watched the other night, telling myself that I needed a ‘visual’ of what was going on. I was disappointed on two levels. I was disappointed at the cynicism, rancor, rudeness, and negativity of some of the candidates. I was disappointed that the needs of the poor and disenfranchised were dismissed or framed only in legal terms. I was disappointed that these privileged men (and one woman) couldn’t show compassion, empathy or understanding for what it is like to be without health insurance, or the means to earn enough to live on. I was disappointed that there was no talk about gun control. I was disappointed at the subtle, and not so subtle racism and sexism. Although I wasn’t disappointed in my opinions, I was disappointed that I allowed my buttons to be pushed. How do I, who longs for silence, solitude and simplicity, want to respond as democracy plays itself out in the next fifteen months? For a start, and perhaps a finish, I don’t want to make cynical, rancorous, rude, or negative comments about a candidate. How about taking the log out of my own eye, and then, if I can’t speak politely, lovingly, and positively, keeping silent. |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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