Sometimes silence yields the fruit of prayer. In those moments when all our words grow sharp and fail us, leaving our lives unbearable, we may swim the ocean of silence and search for peace—and silence, in time, carries tidings of solace and joy. This quietness is agonizing; there is no harder task than to hold one's tongue. Yet in wordlessness are born the most beautiful moments. Our hearts perceive what we cannot see; they hear what our ears cannot hear. What we are now is chiefly the result of what we were before. In the field of our hearts, we have sown seeds and tended crops, and life moves forward gathering that harvest. We think more than what we think. We know more than what we know. Each moment's thought and deed either increases or diminishes what we possess. The moment we align all our unconscious being with consciousness, all our silence will burst into life's victory song. What we do unconsciously, those who have come before us do with complete awareness. Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi would often read a certain book. He never read it before anyone; he read it in secret, in hiding. He was its first buyer. His disciples' curiosity about this book knew no bounds. Their hunger grew precisely because Maulana never read it in anyone's presence. When all had gone, he would draw it from beneath his pillow and read in silence. Naturally, this gave birth to endless mystery. Everyone wondered, "What strange thing is written in this mysterious book?" Many tried desperately to know. Some even climbed onto Maulana's roof, shifting tiles to glimpse what he was reading. But no one ever discovered what the book contained. On the day Jalaluddin Rumi died, his eager disciples became more preoccupied with the book than with Rumi himself. They had loved Maulana deeply—no Sufi master, as far as we know, has been loved as he was loved. The word "Maulana" means the beloved teacher. No one but Rumi is called by this name. Those who had loved him so dearly forgot, after his death, that Rumi was gone. Satisfying their curiosity mattered more to them than Rumi's corpse. The person Rumi became less important than their need—at any cost—to quell their curiosity. They pulled the book from beneath his pillow and were astonished to find it blank. Page after page revealed nothing; there was nothing to read. They found nothing. Among Rumi's devotees, those who were closest to him understood what that apparently meaningless book truly meant. When lips do not speak, the heart speaks forth. When the heart begins to speak, all the world's words become true followers of the heart's master, walking the right path. When someone uses too many words to explain or convey something, its importance diminishes. The more words multiply, the lighter the words become. People rack their brains to save money, yet it never occurs to them—not for a moment—to use wisdom in saving words. They never think of it.
Lost wealth can be recovered, but lost words can never be restored.
Ask the oyster shell, “How did such a precious thing come to dwell within you?” The answer will surely come: “Through silence—however much it cost me, however much pain burned within my breast, through all these long years I have never parted my lips.” During silence, an unending war rages within oneself; the ceaseless urge to voice one’s opinions drives a person to madness, and the lips cannot be kept sealed by any force. Yet there comes a moment when this very silence reveals itself as infinite power. The more we practice silence, the more beautiful and perfect our prayers become; the closer we draw to the Creator. Silence teaches us far more than even our most reasoned words ever could.