January 2nd 2019
A young man once told his father that he had found a woman he wanted to marry and asked for his advice.
"How is the sex?" the father asked.
The son, confronted suddenly not with a protector of innocence but with a carnal creature like himself, shrunk with embarrassment. He had expected the meeting to be a spiritual conference on the summit of a misty mountain, not the low gossip of equals with earth under their fingernails. He thought of his mother and of what he would have to give up if he answered. Then he thought of the distance the old man was giving up, how far he'd descended to take his hand, not point the way. In that question, the father asked the son if he was yet a man in body.
"The sex is good," the son answered.
"That doesn't matter," the old man replied. "How is the talk?"
The son shrunk again, expecting as he did an inquiry into the voice of his heart, not the chatter of his mouth, the daily negotiation of chores and play and rest that sustain and maintain, not the wordless majesty that made them more than the twittering of the flocks. Then he thought of the distance the old man was giving him, what he had not required him to share. In that question, the father asked the son if he was yet a man in spirit.
"The talk is good," the son answered.
"That doesn't matter," the old man replied. "How is the silence?"
"The silence is good," the son answered.
"Then why did you answer?" the old man replied.
A young man once told his father that he had found a woman he wanted to marry and asked for his advice.
"How is the sex?" the father asked.
The son, confronted suddenly not with a protector of innocence but with a carnal creature like himself, shrunk with embarrassment. He had expected the meeting to be a spiritual conference on the summit of a misty mountain, not the low gossip of equals with earth under their fingernails. He thought of his mother and of what he would have to give up if he answered. Then he thought of the distance the old man was giving up, how far he'd descended to take his hand, not point the way. In that question, the father asked the son if he was yet a man in body.
"The sex is good," the son answered.
"That doesn't matter," the old man replied. "How is the talk?"
The son shrunk again, expecting as he did an inquiry into the voice of his heart, not the chatter of his mouth, the daily negotiation of chores and play and rest that sustain and maintain, not the wordless majesty that made them more than the twittering of the flocks. Then he thought of the distance the old man was giving him, what he had not required him to share. In that question, the father asked the son if he was yet a man in spirit.
"The talk is good," the son answered.
"That doesn't matter," the old man replied. "How is the silence?"
"The silence is good," the son answered.
"Then why did you answer?" the old man replied.
There is silence between us for most of the time, between Sparrow and me, because we live apart. But we need to be together in silence: present, sharing the same time and space, silent in "...Negative Capability, that is when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason..." This is my project for the year I suppose, or one of them: to release words here, but to embrace that silence is a rhythm too and to allow, without any irritable reaching ,that being quietly alone together is not the same as being together quietly, alone.
Rhythm. Reach. Release.
ReplyDeleteA practice. For 2019.