It’s very difficult to learn we like the quiet. Not quietness in form, but in content. Our lives are born and continually spent in a storm of seeking and specialness, clamoring for validation, for something, anything, outside of us that might make us happy. We think we know what that is—though it is always changing—and rush headlong into acquiring it, blaring our way through the noisy and tumultuous throngs occupied with the same task, competing for a piece of the babble, seducing, manipulating, controlling, posturing, impressing, ruminating, discussing, strutting.
And when we actually get it—a crumb of praise or acknowledgement or validation—and receive its brief and panicked thrill, something amazing happens: we remain totally disconnected from and oblivious to the fact that it does not satisfy. In fact, it only induces more panic. And so we muster up and charge headlong into the blustering melee again, rushing recklessly into the furor, hoping to find peace. And we fail; a thousand times we fail. None of it makes sense, but from within the chaotic hurly-burly of an individuated life it seems to have a strange and unquestionable logic. We are hypnotized and consumed by the search for specialness, the validation that we indeed exist in a world as a body. That this can somehow work. And so we continue, staggering blindly, groping loudly, always loudly, a slave to the seeming salvation of specialness, oblivious to our insanity, deaf to the quiet within.
We foolishly think our bodies can makes us happy, other bodies, our brains, other brains, information, information about how to stay healthy, information about what’s really going on in the world, spiritual information, discussion, spiritual discussion. Information. Discussion. Something. Something. But it’s all nothing. It’s all so loud, so deafening, it fills our senses, and seems so impressive, but it’s nothing but noise, empty noise, and in the end, noise is not impressive, stillness is. Stillness is.
When we finally cease groping for something outside of us, cease the incessant insanity of searching, searching, searching… we settle into ourselves, our self. And as we learn to be this self, to be with this self, to return to this self, we learn it is not the self of old. It is not a self that seeks. It needs nothing. It does not rail or rave or rage, it is simply itself. It is quiet. And the closer we get to this self the closer we get to our heart, and the silence of our heart. The silence of our Self.