So often, words get in the way. In an attempt for connection, we unknowingly push it away. We can’t help but pepper another with platitudes and not-so-subtle questions. And, whether we’re aware of it or not, we are not talking for the sake of the other. We are talking to ease our own underground anxiety or overt curiosity.
In his Thanksgiving essay about an agnostic and a devote Catholic making salad, author Boris Fishman writes, “The only sound was my peeling, chopping and scraping and a kitchen at work: the oven exhaling; a pan emerging to rest on the grills of the burners; the scrape of a spatula. The three of us entered the most beautiful silence. . .”
Boris’s endearment also reminded me of the blog I posted several year’s back: Cake Is Great Therapy. Okay, Sorta. That is, he wrote how most of what we say aloud “won’t help anyone by being said” but just quietly sharing in the making of a meal might.
Connection is most often discovered in silent compassion and companionship.