Dance was my way of praying, of listening, of celebrating, it wasmy way of being as beautiful as the life around me. Now I feel hideous, unloved, abandoned. I lie down and sob and I feel a screeching hunger for mil, for some essence to flow from the sky and reach down through my shattered mind and reconnect me to warmth and calm. And very gradually it happens. The life in the trees and grass and the warm rocks enters my body and joins me to them. One morning, I sit up and see the incandescent trees in silent communion with each other, immersed in love. This is the world, I think, the real world. Whatever happens to me, the world is still this luminous mystery.
Poet M.C. Richards asks, "In the beginning was the word, but what preceded the word?" Her answer is: SILENCE
A people poverty-stricken for quiet, we! ... Probably never in the history of the world has there been as much noise and as little time in the day for quiet... Carlyle wrote, "Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves," while Einstein believed that imagination is more important than knowledge. If like prayer, imagination needs silence in which to grow, are we not depriving our very souls with such world-wide noise pollution?