The Harried Mystic

Dusk approaches and my room is still. My ear’s ring with the  buzz of the fluorescents and the high pitched hum of the desktop monitor.

Beneath and in between, the stillness is deep and pleasing. If hearing were touching, the silence would be warm and inviting, a blanket to wrap myself in on a cold Fall and rainy afternoon.

It is unbroken and smooth, a velvet surface that gives when I touch it. Like a soap bubble, it is airy and light, but unlike soap bubbles its surface is strong. It seems now spongiform  and impressionistic, responsive and shapeable.

The Silence knows that I am here. It is a deeply personal stillness. It’s here because I am here.

The sound of it seems to call out to textures in me, in my cells; enlivening the spaces between cells, between molecules, between atoms, between particles. This fabric is the cosmic lace, the cloth of heaven, the veil of mysteries, and the stole and cincture of eternity.

I am this silence. This silence is me.

© Brother Anthony Thomas and The Harried Mystic, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Silent Pond