On my way back from Alabama, the birds were on their way wherever.
Their bodies, so many strewn in long lines across the sky, looked like
the words I wrote as a child before I knew how to write words.
I thought my thoughts would simply announce themselves to the page
if I pressed my pencil to it. And still, as I write this poem, I'm waiting
to see what I'm going to tell myself. The birds landed in an empty
field, gleaning for whatever it was they'd find. The clouds, so whipped
by wind, turned the sky a milky blue, pouring down fast and thick as paint
as I drove under it. There is so much missing in the world I try to write about:
I don't know what kind of birds or what had been planted or what to call
a cloud that does that. I'd like to say I don't need to know to love them,
but why else did I spend a lifetime looking for my name? I promise myself
I will look into it later so for now I look at their bodies, try to remember.
For now, a correction: the field was not an empty field. It was so full of birds.
Inayat Khan tells the illuminating story of a disciple who came to the teacher and started to ask a philosophical question. The spiritual teacher was, however, in deep meditation from which he would not be disturbed. He said to the disciple: "SILENCE!"
This word was so powerful that the disciple went into silence -- and remained silent for the rest of his life. However, there came a time when his silence began to speak aloud. His silent thought would manifest and his silent wish be granted; his silent glance would heal; his silent look would inspire. His silence became living.