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In most meditation instructions that you'll hear here and in most places, the assumption is

that we're learning to quiet our mind. Amongst other things, that's kind of a part of the deal.

And there's usually a shared value to quietness and distillness.

And retreats around silence and there's a slowing down and a sense that that's kind of where it's at.

And you know, we see the statues of the Buddha. And in those statues, the Buddha is not talking.

He's quiet. He's not moving. We don't see Buddha action figures, right? And there's this kind of vibe of still, still.

And I know for myself, no matter what is going on in my life, no matter what it is, when my mind begins to quiet,

when I kind of settle a little, when I pause, there's a sense of coming back to what I value.

There's some sense of coming home to a quality of presence, a weakness, heart, that I value.

And it comes when my mind quiets. So I'm going to talk about quietness tonight.

And it's a little bit weird to talk about quietness, but it's not really.

And I'll start with a poem many of you know that I just would like to have kind of a setting of the field here,

which is Pablo Narudas' poem. He says,

Now we will count to twelve, and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth, let's not speak in any language.

Let's stop for a second and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines.

We would all be together in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea would not harm whales, and the men, man gathering salt, would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire, victories with no survivors,

...