An individual sitting in an emergency waiting room noticed a man in a wheel chair in considerable pain with his wife by his side. For a half hour the couple never exchanged a word; they just held hands, looking intently at each other. Once or twice the woman patted the man's face. The person watching said the feeling of love was so tangible in the room that she felt she was sharing their silent communion. Their silent love was also joyful and portrayed the fullness of a human relationship. That's what spiritual silence is all about. Love does not necessarily require words. It often requires silence.
A week of silence had tipped the balance from the desire for external rewards to the intrinsic value of being. I passed the oak I'd sat on the day before. This was happiness: witting in a tree. Lying in the grass. Feeling the fog or the sunshine touching my skin. Watching a hawk circle. All anbition and seeking had fallen away. Even my desire to cling to the sensations of the moment had dissolved. I only wanted to live my life while it was happening, not enmeshed in the past of all that lives.