The Brilliance of Silence.

Via on Apr 5, 2013

buddha

“Silence is sometimes the best answer.” ~ Dalai Lama

Indeed, it is

I found myself yesterday, in just a small state of overwhelmed—my mind racing through the many millions of possibilities and ‘what if’ scenarios. And, with each new path, these thoughts kicked up so many, many more emotions. 

And, when I found myself in this place of ‘there’s really no other place left to go’—I fell to my knees, and cried. I simply cried.

And in that crying, it seems, I let everything go. 

I have always wondered why it is that we cry? Wondering over the human physiology of this emotional release, and perhaps even a few of the spiritual ‘how’s and ‘why’s. 

But, as I lay in a crumpled mess on my floor—and, in that moment of sniffling in my very next breath…I realized, just how very still everything had become. 

And as awareness slowly slipped back into my spirit—the world around me came ‘alive’ once again. 

I could hear the tick-tock-clicking of my favorite wall clock…and the gentle snore of a little pup nearby. 

And with my next full breath, I heard… the birds fighting over the little bit of suet I had placed by my door… and the screech of the neighbor’s little girl who had just ‘discovered’ her first worm… 

All of those little things, came to life again—with each new breath that I allowed to come in.

And just right then, I realized.. that…

Perhaps, even this crying is just a way for my mind to become still again?  

For you see, stillness speaks only when the mind is really ready to listen.

“When you lose touch with inner stillness, you lose touch with yourself. When you lose touch with yourself, you lose yourself in the world.” ~ Eckhart Tolle

 

Ed: Kate Bartolotta

About Tara Lemieux

Tara Lemieux is a mindful wanderer, and faithful stargazer. She is an ardent explorer and lover of finding things previously undiscovered (or, at the very least, mostly not-uncovered.) When she’s not writing, you can find her walking in the woods and sometimes changing the way we look at things, one simple moment at a time. You can contact her at via her website Mindfully Musing or, take one second to "LIKE" her on Facebook at Tara's Facebook Page. Or email her directly at tara@taralemieux.com. All roads will lead to one home, and rest assured she (and Nudnick, the wonder dog) would LOVE to hear from you.

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6 Responses to “The Brilliance of Silence.”

  1. leilra says:

    This is lovely (: so important to remember to be still in our fast-paced world.

  2. Elizabeth says:

    I Love this!! Thank You!!!

  3. Jim McMahon says:

    I live in the mountains of southern Utah in a place where stillness reigns. Oh, it is often interupted by the chirping of birds and if you listen you can hear the river flowing past. But it is interesting to notice that when people visit they tend to plug into the iPods or get antsy around the quiet. Funny, or not so, how we have isolated ourselves from the natural world and natural quiet…

  4. Beautiful piece, Tara. After my husband’s death in 2008, I wept hours a day for a few years. I let tears flow through meditation, through prayers and dreams, through gardening, long walks, and time with friends and my sons. I wept and wrote. I let grief transform me. There wasn’t much choice. I realized that brought silence and a vast sense of the Great Unknown. Now, in the scurry of creating a new life, I sometimes miss the gift of that inner broken-hearted peace.

    Thank you,

    Elaine (http://elainemansfield.com/)

  5. elainemansfield says:

    Beautiful, Tara. I thought I just submitted my comment, but perhaps not, so I'll reconstruct. After my husband's death in 2008, I wept many hours a day for a few years. I wept while I meditated, walked in the woods, gardened, sent time with friends and family. I wrote my grief. I had no choice. I found contact with a great Vast Silence in grief. Heart-breaking, but also healing and ultimately transforming. Sometimes in my busy new life, I miss the silent surrender and transformation of that initiation.
    Thank you for your honest remembrance,
    Elaine

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