I found myself wondering how far she could ultimately journey in her art if she remained self-centered and not God-centered. To be centered entirely on the self is inevitably to be limited in one's range; to be centered on God, aligning one's own self with the power of the Creator is to be open to the spiritual range of all humanity, to be in touch with the eternal, not merely the ephemeral. She was a fine artist, but with her narrowed vision she risked failing to reach her full potential -- or was she, in her preoccupation with beauty and truth, not so far from being God-centered as I in my arrogance supposed?
I am discovering that Silence is not a concept, an idea, not the familiar "absence of sound." Instead, I "enter" silence as if I were to open a door, cross a threshold, and enter a room. Silence is substantive, tactile, like material. I feel its layers. It has depth like water, shallow or deep. I immerse myself in it. It is like water, supportive. I lay back in it. It is buoyant or it can draw me down. I think about whether or not it has a bottom, a ground. Perhaps its bottom turns into a top at some point, just as going east eventually leads west. I feel secure in the way it totally envelops. It is pleasurable yet mysterious.
Mark Van Doren wrote about "the [silent] web of the world, how thick and how thin, ancient and full of grace." What a lovely vocation for me to spend the rest of my years playing with the secrets of that shining place.