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It is not easy to enter into the silence and reach beyond the many boisterous and demanding voices of our world and to discover there the small intimate voice saying: 'you are my belived child, on you my favor rests.'

-Henri Nouwen

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It Is Not Easy To Enter Into

Henri Nouwen

It is not easy to enter into the silence and reach beyond the many boisterous and demanding voices of our world and to discover there the small intimate voice saying: 'you are my belived child, on you my favor rests.'

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<blockquote style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; border-left: 4px solid #8b5cf6; padding-left: 15px; margin: 20px 0; background: #f9f9f9; padding: 15px; border-radius: 4px; color: #333;">
    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"it is not easy to enter into the silence and reach beyond the many boisterous and demanding voices of our world and to discover there the small intimate voice saying: &amp;#039;you are my belived child, on you my favor rests.&amp;#039;"</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Henri Nouwen</footer>
    <p style="margin-top: 15px; font-size: 0.85rem;"><a href="https://pjdigitalmarketing.com/quote/it-is-not-easy-to-enter-into-the-silence-and-reach-beyond-tc9nx" style="color: #8b5cf6; text-decoration: none;">View this quote on Pjdigitalmarketing.com</a></p>
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Children Our World Voice

More From Henri Nouwen

But what i would like to say is that the spiritual life is a life in which you gradually learn to listen to a voice that says something else, that says, "you are the beloved and on you my favour rests."... i want you to hear that voice. it is not a very loud voice because it is an intimate voice. it comes from a very deep place. it is soft and gentle. i want you to gradually hear that voice. we both have to hear that voice and to claim for ourselves that that voice speaks the truth, our truth. it tells us who we are.

For its part, government will listen. we will strive to listen in new ways - to the voices of quiet anguish, to voices that speak without words, the voices of the heart, to the injured voices, and the anxious voices, and the voices that have despaired of being heard.

Words stand between silence and silence: between the silence of things and the silence of our own being. between the silence of the world and the silence of god. when we have really met and known the world in silence, words do not separate us from the world nor from other men, nor from god, nor from ourselves because we no longer trust entirely in language to contain reality.

If nothing that can be seen can either be god or represent him to us as he is, then to find god we must pass beyond everything that can be seen and enter into darkness. since nothing that can be heard is god, to find him we must enter into silence. since god cannot be imagined, anything our imagination tells us about him is ultimately a lie and therefore we cannot know him as he really is unless we pass beyond everything that can be imagined and enter into an obscurity without images and without the likeness of any created thing.

All profound things, and emotions of things are preceded and attended by silence... silence is the general consecration of the universe. silence is the invisible laying on of the divine pontiff's hands upon the world. silence is at once the most harmless and the most awful thing in all nature. it speaks of the reserved forces of fate. silence is the only voice of our god.

I realized the shells were talking in a voice i recognized. i should have; it was my own. had i always known that? i suppose i had. on some level, unless we're mad, i think most of us know the various voices of our own imaginations. and of our memories, of course. they have voices, too. ask anyone who has ever lost a limb or a child or a long-cherished dream. ask anyone who blames himself for a bad decision, usually made in a raw instant (an instant that is most commonly red). our memories have voices, too. often sad ones that clamor like raised arms in the dark.

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These tears i'm wailing, i spill not without reason. remove them, my dearest love. take me to the place i've been dreaming of, where the grotesquely lonely meet the grotesquely lonely and they whisper, just very softly, please be mine, dearest love.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. i have been and still am a seeker, but i have ceased to question stars and books. i have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. my story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; it has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams -- like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves.

Huh," leo said. "well, if you ever get off this island and want a job, let me know. you're not a total klutz." she smirked. "a job, eh?" making things in your forge?" "nah, we could start our own shop," leo said, surprising himself. starting a machine shop had always been one of his dreams, but he'd never told anyone about it. "leo and calypso's garage: auto repair and mechanical monsters.

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