The Poem of Silence: Falling Into What You Already Are

How are we? Truly, how are we in this moment? We usually move through the world as a separate self, a chatterbox that never stops thinking, doing, and achieving. This separate self is not a thing, but a constant activity, a noise that fears its own end. It fills every gap with an "horror vacui," terrified that if it stops for a single second, it will vanish into the abyss. We spend our lives trying to kill time, a violent expression if you think about it, as if time were an enemy to be defeated by our endless gesticulating. But what if we stopped? What if, just once, we didn't move a muscle or speak a word in any language? There is a beautiful **poem of silence** by Pablo Neruda that invites us to count to twelve and just be still. It suggests a strange moment without engines, without bustle, where we might all find ourselves together in a sudden strangeness. It isn't about total inactivity or some spiritual goal; it’s about life. We are so devoted to keeping our lives in motion that we fail to notice the background. Silence is not something we create; it is always here. We are the ones who come and go, making a hellish noise for decades, but the moment we stop, exhausted, the silence is there, exactly as it was before we started. We often imagine that we need to reach a state of peace, as if peace were a destination at the end of a long road. But who is the one traveling? And where could you possibly go to find what is already the ground you stand on? Silence is like space; you cannot see it or touch it, yet you know it is there. It is the blank page that allows the words to emerge. We are that blank page. We are the aware presence that remains when the story of "me" takes a breath. Meditation might bring a sense of comfort or a pleasant pause in the day, but it is not a ladder to a higher reality. There is no higher reality. There is only this—the sounds, the colors, the physical sensations, the boredom of a tax return, or the sharp throb of a toothache. When we stop avoiding the silence and let ourselves fall into it, we don't always find immediate bliss. Usually, we find waves of anxiety, boredom, or a profound sense of vulnerability. We might feel guilty for not being as "strong" as we imagined. But this vulnerability is actually an unconditional openness. It is a sensitivity without defenses that shatters the fantasy of being a separate self in control of life. If we stay with these uncomfortable feelings instead of trying to kill time with activity, we might notice that these emotions are just waves. They are waves of the absolute, appearing as a knot in the stomach or a flutter of fear. They arise from nowhere, pass through the body-mind, and disappear. In this **poem of silence**, there is no one who hears and no one who sees. There is only hearing. There is only seeing. It is an impersonal, effortless dance of energy. Think of the breath—the natural rhythm of inhalation and exhalation.