Those of us who still read in pursuit of
meaning are faced with a paradox. On the one hand, many contemporary writers of so-called
wisdom literature today have little understanding of the
relationship of language to silence, and so are little
able to awaken the silence in us. On the other hand,
most of us as readers have little direct experience of
the “substance of silence” in ourselves, and so the
words we read fall only on other words and simply
increase our own internal noise.
If reading is to be
more than a diversion or exercise for the mind, we must
find a new way of reading, a way which helps us
experience the origins of language and thought both in
the writer and in ourselves. For as Picard makes clear
(page 6): “In every moment of time, man through silence
can be with the origin of all things.” Allied with
silence, man participates “not only in the original
substance of silence but in the original substance of
all things.”
At its best, reading
helps us to participate in a primal process of creation
and discovery. In reading the great wisdom literature,
the words or works of Lao Tzu, Buddha, Jesus, Milarepa,
Socrates, Plato, and so on, one can hear, if one knows
how to listen, an underlying call to return to this
original substance of silence where deep contemplation
and participation can arise. But most of us most of the
time are unable to hear this call. We have little
practice in listening within as we read. And so we read
only words, and the words bounce off of one another and
our memories and associations and seldom reveal their
inherent power to awaken us to new levels of ourselves.
One might wish to
undertake an experiment here, an exercise, to help us
listen, and, of course, there are many useful exercises
one can try. But the problem with such exercises is that
we most often read and hear them in much the same way we
read our books—mechanically, with little real presence.
What is presence? What
would it mean to be present to ourselves not only as we
read but as we do everything else that we do? There is a
mystery here, another paradox. To be present, to
consciously participate in the creative flow of life, I
must return to the original substance of myself and all
things; I must return to the unknown, to the “uncarved
block,” to the vast underlying silence of myself.
How will I undertake
this return? Where will I turn? Am I really interested?
Perhaps these questions will take on new significance as
I learn to read with presence in my pursuit of meaning.
