By Cathy Hird

Recently, I watched someone play a djimbe style drum and noticed not just the way they made the drum resonate but the way they moved their hands to make spaces between the beats. To create the rhythm, the drummer had to tap with fingers and hand but also had to create silence between the strokes.

There are not a lot of empty spaces in our society. Elevator music plays everywhere as if silence would disturb us. We complain we are too busy, but we seldom build empty time into our lives. The TV is on, or the radio. But emptiness and space can feed our spirits; silence soothes and opens our minds.

There is an ancient Hebrew story about silence that goes something like this (the original is in 1 Kings chapter 19):

"Elijah the prophet was angry and depressed. He had been zealous in God's service, but had run into the anger of the king and his life was at risk. He left the city and hid in a cave in the wilderness. There did not seem to be any point in trying anymore.

"But God was not ready to give up. God called him to come out of the cave. Elijah did not move.

"God sent a huge wind, strong enough to split the mountain and send rocks tumbling. But God was not in the wind, and Elijah stayed in the cave.

"God sent an earthquake, but even when the walls of the cave shook, Elijah did not move. God was not in the earthquake.

"Then there was a fire. Even when flames and heat burned across the face of the mountain, Elijah did not move. Powerful as it was, God was not in the fire

"After the roaring, the smashing, the crack of rock breaking, there was silence. Sheer silence. When he heard it, Elijah got up and went to the opening of the cave. God was in the emptiness."

When do you get to hear silence? I acknowledge that we cannot hear something that isn't there. But in those rare moments when we experience silence, it is our ears that sense the emptiness, the space.

A cold still January day is a good time to find silence. Water is still, frozen. Most of the birds have flown south, and the Chickadees and Blue Jays hide from the cold in the evergreen trees. Snow muffles the movement of the neighbours. The world is still and silent.

Sitting with a good friend, we sometimes find silence. The conversation carries us to a moment of quiet, reflection, stillness. With an acquaintance, this moment would become uncomfortable; we would quickly find something to fill the gap. With someone we trust, the silence is fine.

Power outages gift us with silence. The TV goes off, and the radio. The laptop provides music or a movie, but only until the battery wears out. No furnace fan runs; no refrigerator buzzes. Power failures are not comfortable. The house gets cold if it is winter. We worry how long it will be. But these times give us a chance to experience something different, something outside the normal noise. We hear what is between. We sense silence.

Looking for what other people thought about the spaces inbetween, I came across several poems by Octavio Paz. Writing about what poetry is to him, he said:

"Between what I see and what I say,
between what I say and what I keep silent,
between what I keep silent and what I dream,
between what I dream and what I forget:
poetry."

You may not put poetry into the places between. You might put prayer or meditation. You might put companionship or just listening. You might put rest. You might just breathe. What is it that allows you to stay in that moment between?

December is one of the busiest months. There is not much stillness or rest or silence. But it is a good time to make space for ourselves, to cut out some of the extra busyness. So let me conclude with part of another of Octavio Paz's poems, and encourage us all to appreciate the empty spaces in between, the silence.

"Between going and staying
the day wavers,
...The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause."

Cathy Hird is a farmer, minister and writer living near Walters Falls.