"There is nothing in the world," says Meister Eckhart, "that resembles God quite like silence."

All I hear, at this moment, is the sound of my pen tip rolling across the paper. It's that quiet. I sit up in the bed, journal on my lap. This is so different from at home. At home the air purifer hums, the traffic ebbs and flows four stories below, the TV or the stereo (never very loud) talks or sings, the cats meow or burble, the humans talk. It's never silent–never. I sleep with ear plugs.

Here, when I shift my feet beneath the covers, I hear the sound of my toes rubbing against the top sheet. This strikes me as remarkable, so I do it again, just to listen.

Pen on paper, toes under the sheets–I recall Meister Eckhart and say, aloud, so I hear it, "This is like God."

What did Eckhart mean? What do I mean? I stop writing and relax my feet. This silence contains possibility, unknown and unclaimed. This silence is mystery, both present and not present. This silence envelopes me, like a blanket or a shawl; it penetrates, like heat from a wood stove; it hushes, like a finger touching my parted lips.

This is like God.

Or, perhaps, this is God…

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.