Silence is a word pregnant with multiple meanings: for many a threat; for others a nostalgic evocation of a time rendered obsolete by technology; for others a sentence to boredom; and for some, devotees of the ancient arts of contemplation, reading, and writing, a word of profound, even sacred importance.
But silence, like so much else in the present world, including human beings, is on the endangered species list. Another rare bird — let’s call it the holy spirit of true thought — is slowly disappearing from our midst. The poison of noise and busyness is polluting more than we think, but surely our ability to think.
I am sitting on a stone step of a small cabin on an estuary on Cape Cod. All is quiet. Three feet in front of me a baby rabbit nibbles on grass, and that nibbling resounds. A mourning dove moans intermittently. I see the wind ripple the marsh grass and sense its low humming. I feel at home.