I shout into the void.
There is no answer.
I shout again. And, again, hear not a sound in return.
That is the nature of a void.
But this void is made of whispers. A deafening sound that roars in my ears, and I realise that they are not whispers, they are shouts. Everyone shouts, but no one replies. Their shouts, like the others, are lost in the void.
I like the mist. It wraps around the house in a blanket of blessed silence, its soft embrace a protection from the shouting world.
Pre-dawn thoughts have a quality of their own. Reflective. And on this day somewhat melancholy, I think as I sit and watch the day arise.
Dawn lifts the mist from the forest, revealing the rich texture and many-hued green of the trees and shrubs. What did I do to deserve such a paradise when other parts of the world burn with evil born of anger?
We are all shouting, and no one listens.
A kookaburra calls, its laughter a wakeup call. Greet the day, it says. I smile. A lyre bird scratches at the bottom of the garden, tearing up the earth like a giant chook, and a wallaby looks up, then bounds away into the bush.
This blessed time before the world awakes is rich with possibilities, and if I let my sombre mood pass and remain with the potential inherent in the moment, the shouting stops. There is space, but no void. This space is rich with silence and pregnant with the seeds of manifestation. Movement and stillness are one, and it takes but a breath to set something in motion. Intention is the key.
My stomach rumbles. My body is setting its intention. But my mind has loftier aims. It wants to reach out to those in pain and wipe their tears away. It wants to take the causes of their suffering and squeeze them of their life force until they are no more. It wants to wrench dissatisfaction from the world and free humankind from the grip of its endless cycle.
But what can I do?
I shout into the void along with everyone else. But no one replies.
Some voices cry for help, some for guidance; some shout in anger and some in pain, and in some, the voice of reason can be heard—if you listen for it.
And yet, above, below, between, inside and outside, and all around this multitude of voices, silence waits and watches, eternal in its gaze. Silence embraces it all, welcomes it all and sets it free to fade back into the silence from whence it came.
And in this great silence, my voice is heard. It travels in all directions without impediment, propelled by my intention and borne on my breath. With an enormous inhalation, I draw all that suffering and its causes back into my heart where it dissolves in the silence. Then on my exhalation, my voice goes forth again. But it does not shout. It does not even whisper. It is the voice of silence, and it scatters vowels of peace and healing. They creep unseen and unacknowledged amongst the myriad voices—above, below, around, inside and outside—and wrap around the anger like a blanket of warm mist. The silent syllables pulse with life and glow so brilliantly that evil cannot bear their light. Darkness dissolves in light’s embrace and blessed silence reigns.
If names are important to you, you could call it prayer.