In Praise of Seclusion

The Hasidic masters say:  “A person who does not have one hour in each day to herself or himself is not a human being.”

Where have you been?

We Are Anxious, We Are Afraid, We Want to Fall Back Asleep

It amazes me how many ways we find to run away from ourselves.  The temptations are endless.

What is temptation? Anything that keeps you from becoming who you are, who you were meant to be.  Anything. 

Some temptations confront us with a clear and urgent choice like the one Moshe put before the fledgling nation:  Choose you this day life or death, the difficult freedom of the way of the Teaching or the easy way of the scattered and lost. Emanuel Levinas, in his essay “The Temptation of Temptation” (Nine Talmudic Readings sets before us another like choice like this:  Place ontology, the science of being, first, or ethics, the responsibility to the Other that confronts you, first.  The temptation of temptations is to choose knowledge, for knowledge sets you at the center of the universe.  If your choose obligation, you acknowledge that you stand always already in relation to an Other than has a prior claim on you. That is the way to life.

Some temptations come with the full force of drama, complete with warning lights and sirens and axes falling.  That woman or man who promises to be a better match for us than our current partner.  That urge to hurt the person we love.   The need to push another lower to raise ourselves higher. 

But it is the countless, tiny little temptations we face every day without realizing it that worry me today.  All the distractions of “normal” life that we allow to crowd our lives and dull our attention. We want to pay attention, be present to the Presence, and what do we do?  We watch TV, we exercise harder, we call our friends, we drink wine or beer or smoke, we surf the Web, we frenetically try to keep up and stay in touch on Facebook and Twitter, we read literature meant for consumption, we clean our houses, manage our family’s lives, search out great meals and other pleasures, shop, find new hobbies to “pass the time,” consult the stars and psychics, follow the lives of the gods and demigods we call “celebrities.”  None of these is bad in itself.  But when we do them unconsciously, repeatedly, they keep us from going deeper.  It’s easy to stay on the surface.  Nothing is required of us. 

We know how alive we feel when we wake up from this stupor and are really present, even for a moment, to another person or the natural world or ourselves.  Yet we keep going back to sleep.  We keep sipping that sleeping draught so we will not be fully present. St. Paul said it well:  “The good that we would we do not; and the evil that we would not, that we do.”

Why, when we know gives us life and what numbs us, do we keep choosing what numbs us?  Why do we keep enslaving ourselves to empty habits that drain the blood from our lives?  Why do we keep running away from ourselves?  Why do we keep hiding?  Why are we so frightened of becoming who we are?  So afraid to be free?   So afraid to be found?

How does one talk about God?

Out of silence. In order to talk about God without speaking total nonsense and causing trouble, we need to cultivate silence. The mystics of many traditions remind us—from Dionysius the Areopagite to Amma Theodora to Maimonides to Meister Eckhart to Hildegarde of Bingen to Krishnamurti to Rav Isaac Kook—we know nothing about God. And as the eight century mystic Rabi’a teaches,

Since no one really knows anything about God,

those who think they do are just

troublemakers.

(Daniel Ladinsky, Love Poems to God, 27)

Whatever and whoever God is, the reality of God ultimately lies beyond our grasp. We with our limited minds and hearts cannot comprehend it. We cannot contain it in concepts, images, or words, however complex or evocative they may be. It will always break the bonds we place around it. The most appropriate response then is silence.

And yet. And yet we must speak of it, for this reality is that in which we live and move and have our being. How can we, the creatures born to consciousness and language, not talk of this reality that impinges on and supports every moment of our existence? Like many mystics, Rav Shneur Zalman of Ladi experienced the power of this paradox:

The rav asked a disciple who had just entered his room: “Moshe, what do we mean when we say ‘God’”? The disciple was silent. The rav asked him a second and third time. Then he said: “Why are you silent?”
     “Because I do not know.”
     “Do you think I know?” said the Rav. “But I must say it, for it is so, and therefore I must say it: He is definitely there, and except for him nothing is definitely there—and this is He.”                (Buber, Tales of the Hasidim I:263)

To live this paradox of silence and talking about God is the goal. All talk of God must emerge out of silence, be limned by silence, and return to silence.
What does this look like in practice? Cultivating a life of prayer and meditation beyond words in which one experiences the boundlessness of The Beyond. Taming the tongue so that one speaks only that which is necessary, straining to say that which one does not understand. Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan quotes this advice on speaking from a dervish, “’Only speak when you realize that you can’t say what you want to say. If you think you can say it, then don’t say it.’” (The Call of the Dervish, 30) In short, make humility your practice. Speaking of God out of and with silence is part of the prophet Micah’s (6:8) counsel to “walk humbly with your God.”