Much of a monk’s life is spent in silence. Much of a poet’s life is spent in silence, too — a poet spends a fraction of his time actually writing poems. Merton was both a monk and a poet, and thus well-acquainted with silence. Like meditation, and like prayer, poetry is surrounded by silence. Poetry begins and ends in silence. Silence is also inherent within a poem, like the silences between notes in music. As the great Chinese poet Yang Wan-li said, a thousand years ago, “A poem is made of words, yes, but take away the words and the poem remains.”

This was taken from an article titled, The monk/poet’s journey toward silence, by Frederick Smock. It was written on the occasion of the 40th anniversary of Thomas Merton’s death, and published in the The Courier-Journal a US newspaper.

This is day one of the winter monastic retreat. I’ll be publishing a photo/poem series for the next week or so. The poem(s) will be from a Chinese layman who lived, probably, in the late eighth and early ninth century. He was known as Han-shan, The Master of Cold Mountain, often depicted with Shih-te known as The Foundling. These two are depicted in paintings as two grotesque little men guffawing in the wilderness. The images, based on a first hand account may not in actual fact be true. Anyway I’ve always had a soft spot for Han-shan and this is an opportunity to air his insights and wisdom.

Please join in this time of silent illumination as you go about your day. A monk once said to me, Where ever you are there will be sound. I understand that to mean silence is not conditional on there being physical silence in order to know silence.

Thanks to Anna for pointing me to the article.

This is how I’ve managed to do it. With a kitchen timer. Thirty minutes writing cards to family and friends (last time I did that was…too long ago to remember.) Thirty minutes reading: Somewhere Towards The End by Diana Athill. Wonderfully readable and frank book reflecting on a well lived life now moving towards her aging, her old-age. Then thirty minutes writing cards…and so on.

I recommend the kitchen timer for discipline and the book for insight into old age and death. And also recommended is the effort to write those cards to family and friends.

Back in 1994 an immigration officer at the American Embassy gave me unsolicited advice as he granted me my visa. Don’t visit your mother once, come back regularly. I hadn’t thought about her death ’till then. She died a year later. That’s thirteen years ago come Thursday. She’d have been one hundred this year, had she lived on.

Perhaps the cards are a recognition of age. Mine. Theirs. And our passing out of existence.