Silence
Yesterday I heard an NPR interview with Catherine Coldstream, author of “Cloistered: My Years as a Nun.” I bought it a few years ago, because I’ve always liked cloisters, covered walkways, and the quiet they imply.
The interview reminded me how much I used to long for silence, for complete isolation. I’ve heard deep depression described as having no feeling; for me it was the opposite - everything hurt; sometimes I felt I’d been skinned alive.
I remembered being fascinated by anchorites - nuns who were walled into cells, often against the outer wall of a church, with only a small window to communicate with the outside world. I didn’t want to be walled in for life, but what a wonderful place to hide from the world, just for a little while.
I think I have at least half a dozen books from those days, many with “Silence” in their names. Two in particular have stayed in my mind for many years. “Alone,” by Richard E. Byrd, tells the story of his attempt at six months in isolation in Antarctica (which nearly killed him.) “Cave in the Snow,” by Vickie Mackenzie, is about the twelve years she spent as a Tibetan nun in, yes, a cave in the Himalayas.
There are others; I keep them for the day when I might want to re-read them. These days, instead of longing for silence and isolation, I just enjoy a quiet life with limited social interaction. It’s a common trait in my family; my sister taught me the word “peoply” - as in, “The world is just too peoply today.”
I've been trying to find a zen poem I read years ago, about a monk in a mountain hut who had nothing to share with a guest except the mountain air, and the breeze through his window. I can’t find it; I’ll keep looking. (It’s not the one about the thief; if you happen to recognize it, please comment or DM me.
In the meantime, I’ll leave you with the opening lines from “Pangur Bán.” It’s an Old Irish poem from around the 9th century, written by a monk, about his cat, Pangur Bán (White Pangur).
Pangur, white Pangur
How happy we are
Alone together
Scholar and cat