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We lived our days in silent conversations, my thirty-eight brothers and me. Whether we were working in the bakery or in the fields, whether in the barn or in the chapel, we were in continual conversation with one another or with our very present Lord. Such was our life, the Trappist way, the contemplative way, the way of holy listening.
Oh, the guests who came to retreat from their busy, noisy worlds could only first hear the sparrows in the daytime and the crickets in the night. For them, the silence was at first a comforting escape from honking horns and screaming bosses. But then the silence would become the unnerving sound of lonely. I am quite sure that they saw us as ghostly mutes who walked among them.
But for the brothers who dared make this pilgrimage, the silence became filled with whispered thoughts, both human and divine. Our voices were found in a certain mist in each others' eyes or in a certain bend in our posture. A shrug, a smile, a pensive look, a lingered prayer, these became heartfelt communication among those of us who had made our home in this long and listening quiet.
It takes time to silence the Times Square crowd that clamors within our thoughts. But when the stillness finally settles in, the truly meaningful conversations finally can be heard; the silent conversations that take place, soul to soul.
In this realm of holy hush, one learns that there is far, far more that is needed to be heard than there is needed to be said.
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