About half a year ago, I fulfilled a long-cherished dream: I moved into an old mill nestled deep within the forest.
A small stream runs through my garden, home to herons, ducks, and even a shy nutria. Birds of every kind dart among the trees, deer and foxes appear from time to time, and wild plants, flowers, and herbs flourish in the meadow before my house.
But above all, there is one thing here: silence — absolute silence.
Apart from the murmur of the stream and the song of the birds, there is mostly nothing. This silence, in communion with the living presence of nature, is pure balm for my soul and nourishes both my spiritual and creative work.
And although my home lies far from the world, I do not feel lonely.
I feel profoundly connected to nature, and to all that is. In this quiet, I can sense that connection more deeply than anywhere else. I am certain that years of meditation and inner work have helped me not only to bear solitude and oneness, but to love them.
The mystic John of the Cross captures this feeling in a passage from his poem The Spiritual Canticle:
“My Beloved: the mountains,
the lonely wooded valleys,
the wondrous islands,
the resounding rivers,
the whisper of the amorous winds,
the tranquil night
close to the approach of dawn,
the music of silence,
solitude filled with sounds,
the supper that revives and kindles love.”
(from John of the Cross, The Spiritual Canticle, Herder Spektrum)