Excerpted from my upcoming book of non-fiction essays entitled "Way of the World".

Why is it that we never consider the implications of silence and focus merely on the beauty of words and the ennobling sounds of the animal world to stir our imagination and sacred sentiments? Why do we marvel at the cry of the peacock and cringe at the bray of the donkey which, according to the Quran, is the harshest sound on earth? It seems that we are in some way victims in a “conspiracy of silence” that blocks our way to a true understanding of the nature of Reality. I wrote an article recently about the efficacy of words in an effort to give voice to their beauty of sound and their efficacy in communication; now I find myself grappling with the power of silence and its mute implications in order to better understand yet another mystery of life that refuses to give up its secrets. I suggested that in order to appreciate the significance of words, we need only imagine a life without their enduring presence, together with the loss of the flood of communication that words generate. “Without words, the silence of the universe would be stunning and profound, just as it was before the birth of creation and the advent of sound.” In fact, one could reverse the image and write of the power of words and the beauty of silence. Which is more beautiful, or powerful for that matter, the toning of a distant bell or the silence that envelopes the hypnotic sound of the bell within its mystic embrace? We ignore the true significance of silence because of its overt muteness and seeming nothingness, representing an absence rather than a presence and an emptiness rather than a fullness, as if a deaf mute had nothing to offer but the shell of silence as witness to his thinking mind and beating heart. When I think of silence, I think of the wind in the trees, a feather free falling, or snow floating like star dust from the sky. I think of moving shadows and the trailing light of shooting stars, planets rounding in their orbit, crocodiles sleeping in mud, buffaloes standing in paddy fields and swans on water, all artifacts of a mute message that awakens some inner sanctum of mystery and holiness that pours out its contents into the mind and heart like the transparent ooze from a cracked egg. Silence can be extravagant and bold, invading the faculties of our inner world — the flash of our intelligence, the logic of our reason, the emotions of our hearts — like a warrior armed with the weapons of stillness, solitude, loneliness, and darkness, arriving like an uninvited guest and in stealth, robbing us of the noise and disquiet that roams through our being like clashing cymbals and brass, leaving us awash amid the unaccustomed experience of serenity and calm. Silence can contain mysterious depths with nowhere to go and no one to announce itself to, moving amid the inner waters of our being with all of the serenity of a lily pad floating on a pond. Its echoes are far-reaching and profound, if only we take the time to listen.