Friday, November 05, 2010

The Intimacy of Silence: Fridaku Whispers to Summer Farewell

Photo by Gregory Colbert from www.AshesandSnow.org

Silence is a treasured noise. If we can become comfortable in its presence,we can gain great knowledge about ourselves and the world around us and how it relates to us. The cohorts and I got into a conversation about how nice it was to sip wine with friends that didnt have to fill every moment with words. Then one of them said something magical. He described it in a term I hadnt thought of it as but had always known it as such. INTIMACY There are very few people who can be comfortable enough with themselves and others enough to NOT talk or be distracted from the moment. Most folks get nervous when nobody's talking. It makes them uneasy. In fact, most people are afraid of being left alone or having to face someone's silence. Yes, it tends to speak volumes; but the point is in the volume. How much more can be said by saying nothing or how much greater is the content of the volume when words dont get in the way?

Obviously people need to talk and conversation is a good thing to build the bridges between strangers and friends. The quality of that bridge between the roads of togetherness tends to become the binding cord. In short, I found the idea of intimacy more about a soul to soul connection. Obviously romantic partners are intimate. But what of the intimacy among friends that goes beyond the physical proximity to an understanding of soul location that links the essences of a person to another person. It is not relegated by knowing every detail of a person's day or history; but the bigger picture of the smallnesses inside the person's spirit. Yes, conversation allows for the discovery of such revelations. But it is the silence that portrays the understanding of the unspoken and typically undefined bond between spirits, hopes and dreams that our lives become better or have a purpose or find their meaning for existence.

There will always be folks we know. There will always be those we talk to on a frequent basis. But rare are the days that we encounter folks who are intimately bonded on a metaphysical level beyond commonplace. An apple tree produces apples. Its seeds grow more apples. Peach preserves arent made from apples. In our differences we become the same. That very sameness drives us to convince everyone else that we are different. As we tear ourselves away from broken ideology of specialness and better-than-ment; we discover how linked we can be to other people who begin to understand the same ideas. The magic of intimacy allows a couple or group of people to just enjoy the presence of each other in the presence of themselves without having to prove individuality through words; but the union in the human breath of existence surrounded by the now right then.

...and the thing about Fridays is the smalll morsal, the tiny treat — the Friday Haiku known affectionately as FRIDAKU. Our tradition continues despite an occassional miss. My pensive cohort and I take another week to its end and begin with more inspiration. Another Fitness Friday has passed and 50 pushups squashed into a busy week's end leave us inspired at the end of the day with Starbucks wishes warm and filling just before the weekend.

Print from GEORGE RAAB of the Millbrookgallery.
"My original intaglio prints are personal and patriotic statements celebrating one of our greatest assets -- our natural heritage.
They portray the subtle and inspiring wilderness in less well known areas of Canada and the United States. My work touches a common chord of familiarity amongst viewers -- primal longings, seasonal changes, and the natural issues of life and death."

Sleeping Season
Fading sunlight gone,
Winter kisses burning cold.
Summer goes to sleep.

One last note to ponder.
One of my favorite poems to thing of after Halloween is Something Told the Wild Geese. The chill of the air always reminds me of this poem. The majesty of the birds in flight shows the unity in nature to abide by its own laws.

By Rachel Field

Something told the wild geese
It was time to go,
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, "snow."

Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, "frost."

All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice,
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.

Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly,
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.