Lear: … Now, our joy,
although the last, not least…
what can you say to draw a third
more opulent than your sisters.
Cordelia: Nothing, my lord.
Lear: Nothing will come of nothing, speak again.
Today I shall read Lear. And walk by the river, and search for kingfishers.
My mind is scattering fragments: Lear is rubbing uneasily with Genesis 1. The tension between Cordelia — who lives closest to truth in her silence — and the idea that the word (Word) is creative; that we are called to share in that creation.
I know that the answer (for lack of a better word) comes in the fact that Lear only perceives the truth when he is stripped of everything and enters the nothingness, only to find there the truth of love.
I know that the answer (for lack of a better word) is that silence and speech are both creative if they hold their root in God’s love.
But the thought is like mercury today. It is so obvious and familiar that I walk it like bedrock and stomp in frustration at its unyielding. And yet is is so elusive that all I know gets lost there as I try to take up a share in creation.
Lear and Kingfishers. Till silence yields.