Shhh Quiet Please - Episode 12

In this episode, Lulu shares a humorous and deeply reflective story about the unexpected moment she completely lost her voice while preparing for her ordination talks at Unity Village. What began as a frustrating experience became an unexpected introduction to the deeper meaning of silence.

This episode invites you to notice the sacred stillness that exists underneath the hum of daily life — the quiet awareness that is already holding, breathing, and enfolding us.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:34

Welcome to Light in the Garden, a soft place to land, to breathe, and to remember who you truly are. I'm Lulu, and this podcast is my offering. Here at Light in the Garden we explore the quiet places where the human and the divine meet. This isn't a podcast of answers. Goodness knows I am still very much a student of life. Rather it's a place of remembering. If you stay with me, you'll hear stories from the road, from the lake where I spend many hours, and from the long path of my own becoming. Each episode is a companion for your heart, something you can sink into, breathe with, and carry into your day. You'll find encouragement for the weary parts, clarity for the tangled places, and a gentle reminder of the divinity you already carry with inside you. This is a space where we honor the mystery, where we live with one foot here and one foot in the unseen garden that keeps calling us home. This is light in the garden, and I'm so glad you are here. Today I want to share a talk with you called Shuiet Please. It began with a moment in my own life when I completely lost my voice and discovered something surprising about silence. When I was at Unity Village for my orientation some years ago, I got sick. I guess it was the flu or something, but the moment I walked into my room at the conference center, which became known to my fellow ordinance as the plague zone, I began to experience symptoms. All the things I usually enjoyed while visiting there, like the Myrtle Filmore Garden and the Labyrinth and the archives, were replaced with bed and sleep. A friend let me borrow her rental car so I could go to a pharmacy to get some Teraflu and Tylenol and cough syrup. I'm pretty sure she disinfected the entire vehicle after I returned or she wore a hazmat suit. I was there to give three final talks to three different panels of ministers who would give me the final stamp of approval so that I could be ordained. The final piece of my three year process, which I was extremely excited for. An interesting variation of this particular flu or virus or whatever it was is that I lost my voice completely. Up to that point I had never had laryngitis, and I haven't since. Not the most opportune time, obviously given the nature of my visit to Unity Village. Imagine standing in front of a group of ministers who can't hear a word you're saying. Nothing but air was coming out of my mouth. They were so kind and compassionate. Each one came around from the back side of the long table they were seated at and scooted their chairs as close to me as they dared. I guess because I'm a little twisted or something, I found this so freaking hilarious. I flew a thousand miles to deliver three superbly crafted talks meant to impress and communicate my ability to communicate. But then I couldn't communicate. One minister even said, You must feel so humbled. I didn't really know what to do with that, so I just smiled and nodded and humbly bowed my head to receive the stole they placed around my neck at ordination. This was my first taste of silence, though I did not bring it about intentionally. For a time I believed silence was the threshold, the doorway straight to God. I now know God is already unfolding everything. Awareness, not silence, reveals it. I once created silent retreats for myself at home. One time it lasted four days. I turned off my phone and all my devices. I didn't allow myself music or even a book to read, thinking that would distract me from the whole silence thing, which by the way was incredibly difficult. By day two I was having a length a lengthy conversation with my refrigerator rather than with God. What I discovered is that absolute silence could rightfully drive a person a little crazy. I learned that I don't need four days anymore. Sometimes I just need four breaths. Because silence is underneath everything all the time. I used to envision silence as monks sitting on mountain tops or deep in caves, but now I know silence isn't a destination. It's the quiet place that underlies everything. I used to think I had to eliminate noise. Now I know silence is not the absence of sound. It is the presence of awareness. My dogs licking their paws? That's not the enemy of silence. My hip aching not the enemy. Netflix also not the enemy. The enemy of silence was never sound. It was disconnection from awareness, awareness of the presence. Silence isn't something you manufacture, it's something you allow. What if silence is not something we go into but something waiting for us beneath the noise? The noise that is always there. Have you ever tried to be silent and then suddenly remembered every conversation you've had since nineteen eighty three? And then tried to create better responses? Darn, I should have said that. As I sat at the lake recently, journal and pencil in my hands, I asked myself this question How do I stay? How do I live always in its presence? How do I breathe deeply and know really know that this inhalation and exhalation is a now present gift? How do I remain aware of all that is enfolding me because God is already enfolding everything? Awareness reveals it. And with the racious calls of birds and the delighted laughter and yells of small children nearby, I was able to dip below, or maybe above, the noise and find that right here, right now, awareness is. I checked the refrigerator because earlier I had grabbed a bottle of water. I checked the bathroom. Well, that's obvious. As the number of possible locations diminished, the panic began. And then I remembered the find my device feature on my laptop. It assured me the phone was indeed at my residence, which was unnecessary information since I hadn't left the house. So once again I retraced my steps and went back outside. Then I heard it the most delightful sound ever. The phone had fallen out of my pocket and was buried under a pile of puppy redistributed mulch right where I had been working. My reaction was almost as strong as if I had lost a young child. And I wonder about that. About this need to always have an electronic device nearby. Do I need it for information? Do I need it for direct distraction? It certainly isn't necessary to keep me connected to source. Tik Nakan, the Buddhist teacher, once said we seek distractions because quote, many of us are afraid of going home to ourselves. I might add that sometimes we are afraid of what might be asked of us if we turn fully toward our higher self, our divine self. But I have discovered that God, Spirit, our higher self, the universe is not waiting for us in a perfectly quiet room. God is in the hum. God is in the wakeful hours at three AM. God is in the call of the owl at dawn. God is in the ache of grief. God is even in the failing. God is waiting for us to pay attention, waiting for us to become curious. Curious enough to pause, curious enough to notice, curious enough to become still. Where I live in Central Florida, fall happens in January and February, which is very strange if you're from the north, which I am. These are the months when the leaves fall from the trees. The weather is glorious, and I find myself outside. Sometimes I lie in my hammock like a queen, gazing up at the sky, the clouds, the birds overhead, and the leaves drifting down from my red maple tree. I watch them fall. And sometimes I pick one leaf and follow it with my eyes until it lands. And what I notice is this there is no resistance. Leaves fall with zero resistance. Have you ever seen a leaf argue with autumn? No, I'm not ready. I still have more photosynthesizing to do No It simply lets go. I wrote a poem once about this. The first verse goes like this Were I like a leaf crimson, scarlet and gold that loosens its grip from the branch and floats to the ground with ease, with dignity, without fear. And I wonder what might happen if I loosen my grip. If I simply allow silence to be there, how might I notice presence? Would it be a burning bush or would it simply be the quietness of my breath? Dr. David Hawkins writes in his book Letting Go, the Pathway to Surrender. The presence is so obvious, so startling, so overwhelming that there is no question about it. It is profound, total, all encompassing. When everything that stands in the way is surrendered, it shines forth. Then I understand something. I don't have to chase it. I don't have to trap silence in a perfectly quiet room. It is already here, holding me, breathing me, beating my heart, enfolding me, pouring into me, loving me. And perhaps silence is simply the moment when we finally notice. I'd like to offer a longer breathing space now, an invitation to let this teaching land in your body, not just your mind. I call it the silence beneath everything. Let's take a few moments together. You may close your eyes if that feels comfortable, or simply soften your gaze. Allow your hands to rest easy and take a slow breath in and gently let it go. Another slow breath in and release it out. And one more breath in and out. Nothing you need to accomplish. Just arrive. Begin by noticing the sounds around you. Perhaps the hum of a fan or an air conditioner. Perhaps distant voices. Maybe the sound of traffic in the background. Just notice. These sounds are not interruptions, they are part of the moment. Now bring your awareness to your breath. No need to change it. Just notice it moving in and out. The body breathing itself. Notice the gentle rise and fall of your chest. The quiet rhythm that has been happening all day and all night without you needing to manage it. Allow your shoulders to soften a little. Allow the muscles of your face to relax. Now notice the feeling of your body supported, your feet touching the floor, your body resting in the chair, the earth quietly holding you. Just resting here. If thoughts appear, and they will, simply notice them the way you might notice clouds passing across the sky. No need to chase them, no need to push them away. Just let them drift by. Not something you created, not something you had to work for, just something you are noticing. Now imagine, if you like, a single leaf on a tree gently moving in the breeze. And when the moment is right, the leaf loosens its grip. It's not forced, it's not dramatic. Just letting go, floating softly downward with ease, with dignity, without fear. Notice what it feels like in your body to loosen your grip just a little. To let the breath breathe. To let this moment be what it is. Silence is not the absence of sound. Silence is the awareness that holds everything. The hum, the breath, the thoughts, the beating heart. And right here, right now, you are already held in that presence. Rest here for a few quiet breaths. And when you are ready, gently deepen your breath. Wiggle your toes, wiggle your fingers, and when you're ready, slowly open your eyes. Carry this quiet awareness with you. The silence beneath everything. Is always here. Before we leave this space, let yourself name one small thing that is pulling your attention away from presence. Hold it gently and then let it go. Acknowledge quietly within yourself that all is well because presence surrounds you, holding you and loving you. And as you return to your day, carry this with you. Even in the places where distraction may have gotten the best of you, know that silence sits gently beneath everything. Love and light has been at work quietly growing something that only you can grow. When you're completely ready, open your eyes and remember, keep one foot in the world and one in the garden. And know that I am so grateful that you chose to join me today. Talk to you next time. Bye bye.