Terry Hershey

There was once a young maiden who made a silk drum. Whoever could hear its music, would have the blessing of her hand in marriage. One by one young men came from far and wide, but not one could hear a sound.

One young man was left from the entire countryside.
He sat patiently.
He waited.
He listened.
Then he spoke, "I can hear the music of silence."

The maiden said to him, "Then you will be my husband, for you have heard the sound of my heart."

(Okay. I confess. This guy is out of my league. Given my own history and confusion in trying to understand women, if you can tell me that there is a man alive with this kind of skill, I stand in awe.)

On the face of it, this is a conflicting combination: Make space -- in order to hear silence. I'm with Calvin, this is making me nervous. Can we talk about something else?

I spent the week in Southern California building a garden. The weather there comfortably warm, while snow visited the Midwest, and a chilly rain fell on my island home near Seattle. The sun felt good, but I've got to admit that when a garden acts like summer year round, my perspective gets skewed. There is a sameness that unnerves me.

Summer has migrated from our island, and this morning I walk the pathway of my garden, tickled to be here, probably because I feel the complete lack of urgency that comes with late autumn and early winter.

I think back to my "summer garden," brimming, vivid, lush, showing off its coat of many colors, full of energy, vigor and life. In the summer I am in upkeep mode, daily working in my garden, looking for glaring glitches, my mind focused on things to fix, to tidy, or enhance.

It is not much different--in energy--to the way I live my work life, when multitasking is prerequisite. And I tell myself that there is no time for making space. And if I 'fess up, I'd have to admit that if I am talking with you on the phone, chances are good I'm also checking email or sorting paperwork or accomplishing something else on the urgent list. You know, something more important than talking with you. But here's the deal: If I choose to live that way 24-7, I become less human, and my soul shrivels.

I need to learn from my garden. Around the pathway, the late autumn plant life is a different color palate, now muted, softer and tranquil. The red-twig dogwoods still with a few lasting leaves, now copper, deep butter and burnished red. Around the garden perimeter, red tones take over the stage, in the crimson leaves on Sumac and Euonymus.

A Sabbath Moment reader sent me this insight, "Perhaps, Terry, rather than resignation, one might consider that we go within for the next growth season. As with nature we humans need to go within to take the time to silence ourselves from time to time in order to reflect, hear, rest and learn, to then bring out the seasonal phases of our growth that can manifest as beauty to those around us."

Jazz musicians understand the importance of space between the notes in their music. And the space is intentional. In other words, this isn't passive. I, literally, choose to make space.

Where is that space for you?
And what, exactly, do we hear?
Perhaps, in the silence, we hear--
Quiet wisdom from the heart
New insights
Clarity for new directions
The fresh air of stillness
Permission to just be
Hopefulness in our daydreams
Freedom to let go of urgency
The still small voice of God
The sacred presence smack dab in the middle of our ordinary life

Ecclesiastes (the Qohelet, or preacher) says that there is a time for everything.
Time to make tidy.
And time to absorb and make space to hear the silence of the heart.
Today I stacked wood for our wood stove and our fireplace and gave some thought to a makeshift greenhouse for plants in pots that never made it into the garden, good intentions aside.

And then I made space. I sat a spell on the back patio, and did my best to breathe in this acceptance. Around me, I see the "untidiness"--leaves on the paths, shrubs to be pruned--not as an indictment, but as a part of the landscape, the garden, the beauty.


You must have a place to which you can go in your heart, your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not owe anyone and where no one owes you-a place that simply allows for the blossoming of something new and promising. Joseph Campbell

Then Elijah went into a cave and spent the night in it. Then the word of the Lord came to him, saying, 'What are you doing here Elijah?' Then he was told: 'Go out and stand on the mountain before God.' Then God passed by. There came a mighty wind, so strong it tore the mountains and shattered the rocks before God. But God was not in the wind. After the wind came an earthquake. But God was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire. But God was not in the fire. And after the fire there came the sound of a still, small voice, or a gentle breeze. 1 Kings

Silence vibrating is Creation
Silence flowing is Love
Silence shared is Friendship
Silence seen is Infinity
Silence heard is Adoration
Silence expressed is Beauty
Silence maintained is Strength Silence omitted is Suffering
Silence allowed is Rest
Silence re-circled is Scripture
Silence preserved is Our Tradition
Silence given is Initiating
Silence received is Joy
Silence perceived is Knowledge
Silence stabilized is Fulfillment
Silence alone is.
Author Unknown

God of autumn, the trees are saying goodbye to their green, letting go of what has been. We, too have our moments of surrender, with all their insecurities and risk. Help us to let go when we need to do so.

God of fallen leaves, lying in coloured patterns on the ground, our lives have their own patterns. As we see the patterns on the ground, our lives have their own patterns. As we see the patterns of our own growth, may we learn from them.

God of misty days and harvest moon nights, there is always the dimension of mystery and wonder in our lives. We always need to recognize your power filled presence. May we gain strength from this. Amen.

Peace,
Terry Hershey

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