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. Our current culture is obsessed with the "active mode," the exhaling, the manipulating of reality to produce results. We have forgotten the "passive mode," which is not a negative state but a fundamental opening. It is the act of letting the world in. You cannot understand a situation if you are constantly acting upon it. You must be silent to listen. This silence is the inspiration that allows the next word to be born. It is the innocence of the present, a state where everything is met with the freshness of a first encounter. We are like a fisherman in a cold sea who chooses, for a moment, not to strike the whale. We are the salt gatherer looking at his hurt hands, finally seeing them without the need to change anything. This is the "shoshin," the beginner's mind, where we do the same thing a thousand times but always with an innocent discovery. If we are not so intent on keeping the machinery of our self-image running, perhaps an immense silence could interrupt the sadness of never understanding ourselves. The absolute is not elsewhere. It doesn't require a journey. When people ask what to say to someone who is dying, the answer is often found in the silence of simply being there. To be in silence with one who suffers is to enter a presence where there is no longer a "me" and a "you," but just a shared vastness. This presence is the most evident thing there is, whether we are talking or not. It is the screen upon which the film of our life is projected. We get so caught up in the drama of the movie—the tragedies, the triumphs, the mundane chores—that we forget the screen is unaffected by the fire or the rain in the story. Everything that appears right now is the totality. The absolute is manifesting as the sound of a distant car, the hum of a refrigerator, and the thought that "I am not enlightened yet." Even that thought is a movement of the absolute. There is no need to throw away the world to find the spirit. The dente that aches and the infinite without time are the same thing. It is all just this. We can live this as a limitation, or we can see it as the infinite appearing as this specific, fleeting moment. When the mind stops, when a gap opens in the net of thoughts, there might be a sense of freefall. The separate self gasps, reaching for a handhold because it fears it will disappear into the void. But what is this void? It is not a "nothingness" in the sense of a vacuum; it is the "illuminated ignorance" where we no longer know anything. We become like small children, suspended in a state of surprise. The words we use are just a sonic carpet; if you listen past the meanings, they are just vibrations returning to the silence from which they emerged. Is there anyone actually reading these words? Or is there just the appearing of reading, the appearing of understanding, and the silent presence in which it all unfolds? The **poem of silence** is not written in ink; it is the rhythm of what you already are, before you even say "I." Who is it that wants to reach the end of this text? And what do they expect to find there that isn't already here? --- *Experience the depth of the unspoken. Join the Silent Presence Daily 60, a space where nothing is taught and everything is already complete.*