Silence by Veronica Bright

 

I recently came across this story by Anthony de Mello, an Indian Jesuit priest who died in 1987.

There was once a man whose marriage was in trouble. Distressed, he sought advice from his spiritual guide.

‘You must learn to listen to your wife,’ said the wise one.

The man went home, took this advice to heart and returned after a month to say that he had learned to listen to every word his wife was saying.

‘Ah,’ said the wise one. ‘Now go home and listen to every word she isn’t saying.’

Silence can be beautiful. Think of standing in the middle of a warm, green wood at noon, when the birds are quiet and the air is still. Think of a wintry sun setting beyond the bare white branches of a silver birch tree. Think of the moors, distant sheep barely moving, and for a few minutes the world seems to have stopped its perpetual rushing about.

As writers, we may use creative language to present our readers with a setting. It might need hard work, but it's do-able. What isn't so easy is getting them to eaves-drop on conversations and pick up what someone is not saying. How do we do that? How do we help our readers to work out for themselves what isn’t being said?

Should we draw attention to reactions? Facial expressions, eyes widening or half-closing perhaps? A knowing smile? A cold stare? A foot stamped?

Silences are so interesting. There are the awkward kind that arrive unexpectedly, and there are the angry kind, too. Silences can be damaging, or devastating. Think of Derek Chauvin with his knee on George Floyd’s neck, and his fellow officers not stopping him. This was the worst kind of silence: a silence of omission. A silence that makes us think. If we keep silent in this kind of circumstance, are we choosing to be complicit in whatever we are witnessing? Does fear stop us doing what is right?

Let's go back now to the best kind of silence, when peace surrounds us like a cloak, when ‘stillness is not simply silence, but an attitude of listening to God and of openness towards Him.’*

My prayer is that we may all be heard through the silence of our written words.

 

*From the Philokalia, a collection of texts written between the fourth and the fifteenth centuries by spiritual masters of the Orthodox Christian tradition. Quoted in Celtic Daily Prayer, Book One.

Photos - author’s own   

Veronica Bright loves telling stories. As a former reception class teacher in a Cornish village primary school, the best part of the day was gathering the children together and making up all sorts of amazing things. Her pupils probably believed there was an elf living in the cupboard, and that the spider who frequented the sink had the power of speech. They inspired her non-fiction books for collective worship and many of her prize-winning short stories, now self-published in three collections.