Music and Silence

We decided, since we are allowed to decide,
since our ritual is flexible, to have instead
of the unprogrammed program
of sitting in silence waiting for some
leading that may or may not come
from someone, or a few someones—

we decided instead of an hour
of unprogrammed “worship”
or “expectant waiting,” or whatever
you want to call it—decided
to have the first half hour
be music. And one of us

who is an excellent pianist
was asked to choose whatever
she would like to play,
and play for about half an hour.
So she chose, and when the day
came yesterday, she played.

It was not a concert, or a recital,
or a performance,
but a message,
using the language
of music. She played
beautifully, with a short pause

between each of the pieces—
no announcements of what
the pieces were, who wrote them,
though some of us recognized
some of them. Bach,
Beethoven, Chopin,

in the meeting house—
where music was once
forbidden. When she finished
playing—silence. How different
from a concert, where everyone
bursts into applause.

Nothing wrong with bursting
into applause, and the musician
or musicians bowing, and first a few,
then everyone, standing. But this
was something different—the way
the music was followed

by silence, nothing but
silence, in the meeting
room with its plain walls
and simple old dark wooden
benches. There was a hush
in the silence, more than the usual  

silence. After a while,
one person rose and spoke,
and then another, and the mood
of what they said was peaceful,
in response to the wordless
message of the music.

Where did the message
come from? Well,
it came from the person
who chose it and played it.
And it came from the piano,
the people who built it

and tuned it. And it came
from the composers.
It came from the spheres.
And it came from
the unnamable well
from which music comes.