“When I am silent, I fall into that place where everything is music.”
Let us close our eyes. Imagine our souls leading our bodies to fly over mountains and rivers, eventually arriving the land of India. Here you would walk into a woodblock printing workshop, and see how a craftsman grabs a large wooden stamp with his agile fingers, dips it onto the ink pad before he carefully places it on the surface of the natural-dyed cloth. Then the craftsman would knock on the stamp with his fist, creating the most perfectly imperfect and raw stripes onto the cloth.
You lean closer to have a good look, then whisper into the craftsman’s ear, “What a beautiful stave!” He smiles and continues to knock on the wooden stamp in a slow yet meticulous pace, creating breathtaking music. Between the notes, silence exists and holds tight. By then the tailor has arrived. With the raw striped cloth, he makes the lightest garments for the two of us. The Silence Dress, as gentle as lake water, sways in a soothing rhythm. Hand in hand, we soak in sparkling stillness; we look at each other and beam with delight.
A time to be silent; a time to dance.