Silence — or not . . .

I opened my eyes at eight. There was plenty of time to get to the 9:30 Quaker meeting on East 15th Street.

A noisy life of noise-making can make making quiet quite difficult. I tried. Strains of Mozart, Schubert, and Beethoven crowded out silence. I even thought about what I might write, right in the midst of meditation.

Was I where I belonged? I think so, at least for that morning. My friend Rick Faria said of meditation, it's not so much actively quitting thought, but letting the brain's prattling strains pass by and by.

This morning was a parade of brass bands in full cry, the air was crowded.