A Strange Silence
There are long hours in the day now in which I find myself alone, and see no one... Or it may be that in the company of others amid the liveliness of general conversation, deafness leaves me alone in an awkward silence. I feel the constraint of being against my will a non-conductor of geniality, and wish that I could disappear unobserved. Then, perhaps, I shall find that I am deprived of the opportunity of contributing to the general cheerfulness in order to discover another function given to me instead, and I may learn to forget myself and the constraint of my position, and reverence the presence of God in my companions and in myself. Thus I might without observation prove in my silence a link for them with the eternal truth and the infinite love. If deafness separates me from my brethren, it is only an outward separation, and for the moment, and gives occasion for a closer fellowship in Christ through prayer.
Or, again, I remember that when I have been alone in times past, nature has been wont sometimes to speak to me, and fill me with happiness too great for words. But now as eyesight begins to fail me, the sun, the moon and the stars, grow dim for me... Through this dimness the voices of nature no longer reach me. The sun rises and sets, and the bright stars come out, but they say nothing to me now. I remember 'the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower', but I no longer hear the canticle of the creatures. The daughters of music are brought low, and I am left to myself in silence. And now in the stillness I become aware of one who lures me into the wilderness in order that he himself may speak to my heart. The silence is strange: I must rouse myself and stand to hear what the Lord will say to me. As I awake to listen in stillness and serenity of soul, all my past life,
The noisy years, seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence.
The silence that enfolds me in this solitude is the eternal love, and I no longer want his messengers, the creatures, to speak to me of him, for God has come to speak to me, and his message is himself.
George Congreve, Treasures of Hope for the Evening of Life (Longmans & Co. 1920), pp. 189-90.
Stillness
I once read a poem about silence,
It did not sink in.
Mind was too full of inspirations, aspirations, ruminations, trepidations.
Noise.
I recited Shepherd's Psalm,
Felt blessed and brave, anointed and cherished,
But though rock was cleft
I remained bereft
Of "still water".
I stood by the grave of a friend,
Felt pull of Time,
Downside of cycles,
Yawning of pit,
Titanic, cinematic pastoral invasion.
Bird chirped.
Dam broke.
Angst poured.
I lay down in green pastures of stony silence,
Restored.
There are long hours in the day now in which I find myself alone, and see no one... Or it may be that in the company of others amid the liveliness of general conversation, deafness leaves me alone in an awkward silence. I feel the constraint of being against my will a non-conductor of geniality, and wish that I could disappear unobserved. Then, perhaps, I shall find that I am deprived of the opportunity of contributing to the general cheerfulness in order to discover another function given to me instead, and I may learn to forget myself and the constraint of my position, and reverence the presence of God in my companions and in myself. Thus I might without observation prove in my silence a link for them with the eternal truth and the infinite love. If deafness separates me from my brethren, it is only an outward separation, and for the moment, and gives occasion for a closer fellowship in Christ through prayer.
Or, again, I remember that when I have been alone in times past, nature has been wont sometimes to speak to me, and fill me with happiness too great for words. But now as eyesight begins to fail me, the sun, the moon and the stars, grow dim for me... Through this dimness the voices of nature no longer reach me. The sun rises and sets, and the bright stars come out, but they say nothing to me now. I remember 'the hour of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower', but I no longer hear the canticle of the creatures. The daughters of music are brought low, and I am left to myself in silence. And now in the stillness I become aware of one who lures me into the wilderness in order that he himself may speak to my heart. The silence is strange: I must rouse myself and stand to hear what the Lord will say to me. As I awake to listen in stillness and serenity of soul, all my past life,
The noisy years, seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence.
The silence that enfolds me in this solitude is the eternal love, and I no longer want his messengers, the creatures, to speak to me of him, for God has come to speak to me, and his message is himself.
George Congreve, Treasures of Hope for the Evening of Life (Longmans & Co. 1920), pp. 189-90.
Stillness
I once read a poem about silence,
It did not sink in.
Mind was too full of inspirations, aspirations, ruminations, trepidations.
Noise.
I recited Shepherd's Psalm,
Felt blessed and brave, anointed and cherished,
But though rock was cleft
I remained bereft
Of "still water".
I stood by the grave of a friend,
Felt pull of Time,
Downside of cycles,
Yawning of pit,
Titanic, cinematic pastoral invasion.
Bird chirped.
Dam broke.
Angst poured.
I lay down in green pastures of stony silence,
Restored.
