The Human Box

I had a very interesting conversation the other day about how we as humans feel the need to label everything.  How we take the infinite of all there is any and begin to label all that we see, think and feel through our own personal human experience. It seems as if by labeling it we try to quantify and qualify the observed into something we can “know”.   I walked away from this conversation with the intent of becoming aware of how I label my human experience. 

I immediately noticed that my stomach (label) growled (label) and I (label) was hungry (label).  I (label) went to my (label) fridge (label) to get some food (label). 

How and/or from whom did I learn these labels?  Where did they learn them?  Why do I believe them? 

I realized that this simple example seemed rather trite; but as I sat with these thoughts, I began to see how we as humans feel the need to reduce all that is into something quite trite. 

I wondered into the courtyard and began to look at a rose.  How could I explain this to someone else?  Well if the person was blind, I might begin with the color, shape, size, etc.  If they couldn't smell, I would do my best explain the fragrance.  Then I realized how I have limited the full experience of the rose by simply trying to describe or label it.  By my labeling, the rose was limited, the other, to whom I was trying to share this rose was limited by my labeling and I was limited by sharing my experience to the other that couldn't see or smell.  The rose became a flower that smells nice and grows on bushes with thorns. 

I gently moved my thoughts to me.  How do I label myself?  Woman, 51, daughter, aunt, human, etc.  I recognized how each label made me smaller and smaller until I could fit into a human box.  My thoughts wondered to the other internal labels I have accepted as my truth: not enough, not lovable, talkative, optimist, willful, etc.  And then, the final door sealing label; judgment: like/don’t like, agree/disagree, mine/yours, and finally you/me.  And I became even smaller until all that I/you are, was or could ever be could fit into a small box. 

Slowly the realization of the unlimited has turned into a speck of dust.  I view you (the other), the world and myself through the labels that I place on them.  I have limited my experience of all that is by continuously reducing, reducing, reducing until the actual experience is nothing but a speck of dust floating by. 

I closed my eyes to the finite only to open them to the infinite.  

The Song of Silence

In full confession, I must admit that I am a talker, a talker from way back.  My parents used tell the story of how I used to sit on the edge of their bed as a small child, waiting for them to wake up so I could talk to them.  (As I grew they sent me to my grandparent’s house down the street to “share some of my words with them.”  I am so very sure they were pleased!)  I can’t even tweet because 140 characters is hardly enough for me to get started!

For whatever reason, most helpful people feel the need to ask me,  if I know I talk a lot... They often look at me with the most glorious look of discovery in their eyes.  I usually thank them for their insights and promise I would love the opportunity to talk with them about that discovery.  (I have found they usually RUN.)

So when the mind musing of the Song of Silence came to me I was quite intrigued.  Silence – as a song?  What is a song with no words or music? As I began to explore this thought, my mind, of course, had to make up a song, yes with words and music to fill the silence.  OK, so not exactly silence, but I got the song part right.  Sigh…

So as I prattled through my house, I began to notice the talking in my head. The running commentary on everything, this is good, this needs cleaning, this is a floor, etc.  No silence there.  The words seemed as if there were pulsating from my brain.  A constant commentary on everything, 

Outside I go, to hear the song of silence.  Ah, I hear the birds chirping, the sounds of the Calliope on the Natchez Steamboat, the tugs on the Mississippi River, and yet there I was commenting on all of them.  Wonder what kind of bird that is? Why do they always play those songs?  Wonder where those barges are going? 

Then it dawned on me the song of silence must come from within me.  To observe things as they are with no judgments, no thoughts, just be completely with the observed.  To watch and wonder with complete abandon.  To allow the moment to come to me with all of its secrets and hidden beauty.  To let it speak to me so that I could take in this most precious moment in its entirety. 

As I began to relax in this moment, the song of silence appeared, for I was silent and the whole world spoke to me.  Gratefully I am silently singing.