In order to figure anything out, one must either start from the very beginning or the end – from the beginning of creation or from its final goal. After all, what’s in the middle belongs to our work, free choice. By analyzing the beginning and the end, we have to understand what we have to do in the middle.
The difference between the beginning and end of the path lies in acquiring the intention of bestowal. Nothing but this changes in reality. By changing the intention, we attain our difference from the Creator and correct it. Therefore, it is clear that our task lies only in attaining this proper intention.
Every action consists of thought, speech, and action. Thought is the plan preceding everything, which initially includes the result of the action. And in the middle, between the plan and the execution, there is speech, meaning discernment.
And in order to make the proper discernment, there must be concentration. This is why Kabbalists have a custom of being silent, which is also done in this world. When a person is about to undergo an important event and he wants to understand how to do it, he focuses on it, requiring silence, and trying to close himself off so he won’t be bothered by external conversations. He intensely prepares to carry out the action correctly.
That is why we want to spend the weekend in silence, in quiet, and think about how we can attain the right action. Instead of talking, we will make discernments in silence.
Sound of Silence
Hello darkness, my old friend,
I’ve come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Within the sound of silence.
In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow streets of cobblestone,
‘Neath the halo of a street lamp,
I turned my collar to the cold and damp
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light
That split the night
And touched the sound of silence.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.
“Fools,” said I, “You do not know –
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you.
Take my arms that I might reach you.”
But my words like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming.
And the sign said, The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sound of silence.