Silence is best in Love, almost always. Good things come in silence. Eyespeak, for one. Soft caresses, another. The scent of clean sheets in the dark. Love is largely caressed in silence; soft, whispered I Love yous merely punctuate loving silence.

I was taught that silence is golden, but I thought it meant that I should remain quiet because children should be seen and not heard. I’ve since come to understand, that unless I’m delivering pure audible Love caresses, less is more, especially within Ourself. I know my pleading words of correction, explanation, and refinement almost never make a difference for the better. They almost always represent my bruised ego defending some perceived harm. Not a recipe for success.

Heated words are too easily re-ignited by more heated words; coals upon coals. What’s the use in that? I’ve been called weak, afraid, even uncaring because I wouldn’t pour audible gasoline upon heated conversations. I have also regretted singeing my eyebrows after dousing heated conversations with high-octane vitriol. Given a choice, if I can control myself, I choose silence whenever I can.

When I am at a loss of words I choose not to invent them. When every syllable I might utter is likely answered by six; when I see things so differently that thousands of words need translate; when words fly faster than I can keep up; when I wish I could hold her and am repelled; I know nothing I can say will suffice.

Then I am quite content to paraphrase Elbert Hubbard: she who doesn’t understand my silence will probably not understand my words.” So, why speak them?