Listening to the Silence

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A SHORT STORY

There is a Zen idea I love that says: “You will not find yourself, but the world will come and find you.”

That is, if you listen.

This past week, Anastasiia and I spent our days hiking in Patagonia. Most of those days we were on foot for 8-9 hours, surrounded by vast landscapes and profound quiet.

We had a lot of time to listen.

In many ways, I kept asking myself: what is this silence inviting me toward?

That question reminded me of a story I once heard from the great anthropologist Wade Davis. He shared an unforgettable lesson he learned while living in the mountains of Colombia as a young man. A Kamsa Indian told him:

“In the first years of your life, you live beneath the shadow of the past, too young to know what to do.

In your last years, you find that you are too old to understand the world coming at you from behind.

In between, there is a small and narrow beam of light that illuminates your life.”

As we step into this new year, I invite you to pause and listen for that light. Let it guide you, even if only for a moment.

And perhaps, when you find yourself in the quiet, you might ask: what is this silence inviting me toward?

How can you find a moment today to have a moment of quiet?

A PIECE OF ART

“Rain, New Year's Eve” by Maggie Smith

The rain is a broken piano,
playing the same note over and over.

My five-year-old said that.
Already she knows loving the world

means loving the wobbles
you can't shim, the creaks you can't

oil silent—the jerry-rigged parts,
MacGyvered with twine and chewing gum.

Let me love the cold rain's plinking.
Let me love the world the way I love

my young son, not only when
he cups my face in his sticky hands,

but when, roughhousing,
he accidentally splits my lip.

Let me love the world like a mother.
Let me be tender when it lets me down.

Let me listen to the rain's one note
and hear a beginner's song.

Grateful,

Michael