LETTERS FROM HOME: NWO AND SILENCE FALLING

Dec. 7, 2000

Dear Leslie,

The first snow of the year lies sprinkled like confectioner's sugar on the yards of Cape Girardeau. It's not enough to provoke sledding but just enough to make you accept that winter is settling in for a while.

Winter comes, like silence, as a respite from the hum and drum of the rest of life. Winter gives us a chance to gather ourselves under blankets, to build warming fires that hypnotize with flickering light, to replenish ourselves with hearty foods, to de-activate a bit, to reconsider the year nearly passed, to nestle.

Winter gives back, renews with solitude and quiescence. Not at the mall, where the race to buy Christmas gifts can resemble a land rush. The silence of winter, like silence in your life, is yours only if you seize it.

Silence comes, like winter, to deliver our senses from the near constant stimulation of the rest of life. At first it can feel uncomfortable or at least foreign because we have become so used to the maelstrom. But stay with it, allow it, and slowly a veil is lifted to a world where the life we think of as normal seems more like frenzy.

This silence restores our connection to the source of our being, driving away the fears that arise when we feel separate.

Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright.

At her concert here last weekend, Sheryl Crow began the desperate "Leaving Las Vegas" with the words to "Silent Night," then added "Everything's gonna be all right" from Shawn Mullins' soothing "Lullaby." Somehow they all fit together.

"Mysteries are not to be solved," says Rumi. "The eye goes blind when it only wants to see why."

With Hank and Lucy's help, DC has replenished the bird feeders beyond our kitchen window with seed, and guests are pouring in. The dogs get to lick the split corn off the top before the lid goes on.

They become friskier in cool weather, but it's very cold now. Their journeys into the backyard last only a few minutes. They plop down on their beds next to the radiator in the kitchen, in no hurry to chase or explore.

Our neighbors' outdoor dog, Cato, only moves from his hibernational curl to howl like a big wookie when the bells of St. Mary's Cathedral call worshippers to Mass. Then silence.

Love, Sam