Last year I planted scarlet runner beans. I’m not really sure why, as we don’t eat beans very often. But I planted them, and enjoyed the thought of a bountiful harvest and a larder full of canned winter and end-times provisions.
I think I brought in about 20 beans. I don’t mean 20 bean pods, I mean 20 beans. But they were pretty beans – reds, pinks, and greens streaked through the beige. I put them in a little bag and tossed them in the freezer, hoping I’d be able to add to the sad pile.
This spring I buried the leftover seeds, grouching as I did so, “Why am I bothering? They won’t grow. What a waste of soil.”
But in they went, down to their dark tomb, until the sun called them forth.
The flowers of scarlet runners are a shocking red, and maybe just the beauty makes the planting worthwhile even if they are without any fruit. They attract pollinators, so I told myself that I was planting them as a gift to the hummingbirds and bees.
My mother-in-law came over a couple of weeks ago and commented on all the beans growing in the garden. I doubted her eyesight as I had been out there that morning and seen only flowers. When I went to investigate I did find three beans, one of them quite overgrown, but not “a lot of beans.”
The next day I went back again and stood quietly for more than a moment. I was surprised to see how many must have grown very quickly the night before. I came in with a small pile to cut up and add to my little desolate bag in the freezer.
Since then, I walk to the garden most days to gather whatever small amounts of food await me. Today as I stood barefoot in the dirt, trying to avoid the small but feisty leeks that are inconveniently placed in front of the beans, it occurred to me all that is discovered in silence. Because while I stood there, my feet warming in the dirt, I took my time. I just watched the beans with uncharacteristic patience and uninterrupted peace, and suddenly, more than just beans appeared.
I found the chubby bumblebee that loves those scarlet flowers and feeds off of them everyday, and she was napping on a leaf in the sunshine. (Yes, bees nap on flowers, and it’s adorable.)
I was only inches from her and she rested in trust and peace. I saw a new spiderweb, glistening, also trusting that it would provide its designer with sustenance from the garden.
And yes, the beans were suddenly popping out, everywhere. I gathered enough to need a second bag in the freezer. Not much for more successful gardeners, but more than the 20 beans I had come to expect. I honestly would never have seen them if I hadn’t had those few precious moments of soundlessly contemplating the trellis.
I know I am a broken record, repeating many of the same themes, but for whatever reason silence is one of them. People spend all kinds of money on supplements, and devices, and programs, designed to make for a more meaningful life, a more healthy life. We commit time in our day to these purchases in the sincere hope for better things.
But what if we made silence one of those commitments? What if, at every single Mass, there were times of uninterrupted silence when our only “active participation” was wonder and receptivity?
What if we attended Eucharistic adoration and could expect quiet; if the guitars and bridges would just stop for a minute to let God whisper into one’s soul?
What if our children grew accustomed to those times, and had an opportunity to let their weary, noise-laden, electronically charged brains just stop for a second?
What if we prayed, and sometimes that prayer was just a few moments gazing at Our Lord? What life-changing wonders might be discovered that were missed just the day before.
“The heavenly Father has spoken one word: It was his son. And he speaks it eternally in an eternal silence. And it is in silence that it can be heard by the soul.” — Saint John of the Cross