befriending silence in a famine for the words of life...

As the world we once knew continues to burn, our bought and paid for politicians waffle, obfuscate, and out-right lie to creation and the Creator. Many of us feel desperately lost and even callously discarded. There are loved ones among us who act out in their terror while others retreat into distractions, addictions or pettiness. I want to consciouslly choose to see this time of despair, pain, and collapse as one filled with possibilities. The suffering is real and horrific. At the same time, we KNOW how to heal and restore Mother Earth. We KNOW what is required to both eliminate mass murder and one-on-one gun violence to say nothing of what must take place so that those most likely to kill find a way into safety, community, and the possibility of healing. We KNOW how to prioritize compassion rather than greed and balance instead of busyness. We KNOW how to do all of this and so much more. What we don't seem to know is how to listen: to the still, small voice of the sacred within, to those who are loud and threatening, to our lovers, children, or neighbors.

The Scottish psychiatrist, R.D. Laing, reclaimed the words of ancient Israel's prophet Amos who prophesied that there would come a time of worldwide famine, not for bread or physical sustenance, but rather for hearing the words of life. (Amos 8) We are living into those sacred words. It is my conviction that we need one another in pursuit of befriending the silence. We each have a part to play in creation's renewal. But most of the time we can't hear what is most true within our hearts. We need the words and the wisdom of others to help us reclaim our deepest gift. Emily Rose Protor put it beautifully in her poem about two Biblical sisters: Mary and Martha.

Martha knows the dinner will not cook itself.
Mary feels the moment swiftly passing.

Martha knows each thing has its place.
Mary notices how each thing changes with the light.

Martha knows a word from him would change things.
Mary turns the words like honeyed almonds in her mouth.

Martha knows the kitchen turned temple,
The pot of stew a thurible, filling every empty space.
Mary listens with a thirst that frightens her
For something that makes no sound.
— Emily Rose Procter, “To each her own”