Day to day pours forth speech,
and night to night declares knowledge.
There is no speech,
nor are there words;
their voice is not heard;
yet their voice goes out through all the earth,
and their words to the end of the world.
- Psalm 19:2-4
These verses from Psalm 19 read almost like a riddle, and they remind me of one of the most famous of Zen koans*: What is the sound of one hand clapping?
What is the sound of a day's speech?
What is the declaration of a night?
The poet's words suggest that there is wisdom, knowledge, and word conveyed by life and the passage of time that is beyond the speech of our own mouths or the meditations of our hearts. The heavens, the earth, the sea, and all that dwells therein have something to proclaim that is truthful and holy. And this proclamation emerges through things simply being what they are in their natural state of being.
The unfolding fiddlehead of a fern is its own sacred scroll.
A sidewinder's track through desert sand is its own holy writ.
So, one question that emerges for me as I reflect on the psalmist's words is: How might I listen more deeply to the speech of the day and the voice of the night?
And a second question that comes is this: What of human beings? How does a human life, in its most natural states and expressions, join this chorus of praise?
There is so much we do that is practiced and self-consciously performed. My words here are a case in point. I am sitting here choosing them carefully, as I tend to do whenever I write. I love words--finding the right one for the right moment (whatever "right" may mean!). I like the practice of putting words together in writing and speech, attempting to point toward something that feels truthful. And, in the end, I love the ache and struggle that arise from the awareness that no words of my language will ever circumscribe the Truth--or, more to the point, God.
There are also those moments in this life when we step away from all that is practiced, performed, and affected, and we simply feel what some call "flow." We find ourselves in the natural unfolding of a moment, an experience, an encounter with another. For a time we are freed from our self-consciousness or concerns about whether we are doing it right. I wonder if these may be the moments when we most fully join the days and nights in "pouring forth speech" and "declaring knowledge" about the glory of God.
The late Fr. Matthew Kelty, OCSO, a member of the Benedictine Abbey of Gethsemani in Kentucky, meditated on this so beautifully in his autobiography, Flute Solo:
I am not a flutist, yet I have a flute and I play it, play it for no purpose and for no ears save God's and my own. That being so, there is no need for artistry or skill and I can sing my tune without fear of correction or disapproval, let alone of another showing me how it should be done. If accomplished play is a good thing, and it is, it is perhaps also true that the way to skill is the end of joyous freedom. . . . Even when the tune turns out rich and running, there is the sound of the bird in it, clean and selfless. I don't want to learn to play the flute; I prefer it this way. Beyond my incapacity to get far, there is the fear of my small joy being driven away by concern for doing it well and turning a natural act into a performance.
* Koans are paradoxical questions or statements used as teaching tools in certain traditions within Zen Buddhism. Some have likened them to parables, such as those used by Jesus for teaching, however, koans do not allow for logical or allegorical interpretation. They intentionally invite the student to move beyond rational thought processes.
