As the story goes, a young monk came to live in the monastery. The people who lived in the town outside the monastery were holding a series of festivals in which they sang and danced all night long. When the monks would rise at three thirty in the morning to begin their meditation, the parties from the night before would still be going strong. At last, one morning the young monk cried out to his master, ‘Venerable One, the noise is interrupting my practice — I can’t meditate with all this noise!; ‘The noise isn’t bothering you, ‘ the Master responded. ‘You are bothering the noise.’
Winter is starting.
The middle aged woman hipster, who reads long form Dickensian classics, outside the coffee shop next to where I work brought a huge burgundy pillow for her massive brown dog today. As Miss Havisham asks Pip to play, the woman sips her pumpkin spice latte, and her massive brown dog raises its head to look at cars pulling in for coffee stops, and you realize it's the starting of winter.
Some silences are like the winter's silence. Have you heard it. ‘Silence is not a function of what we think of as silence. It’s when my reaction is quiet. What’s silent is my protest against the way things are.’ In winter the bear goes inside the cave to hibernate, and is comfortable with the hot cup of steaming instant coffee and drawn blinds and turned on television, is comfortable enough not to talk about the way things are. All the bears are inside their caves in winter. Only silence lives in the outdoors, one can listen to it.