Wisdom Of The Prophet

Patience, Grief & The Ritual Of Reading Out Loud

As I sat alone in my room amidst the gloom of autumn mornings in the Pacific Northwest on a club chair with faded pink upholstery, I read through The Prophet aloud, one passage per day. This was my intuitive offering, a spontaneous ritual to grieve my father who had passed just two days after my 32nd birthday on September 19th at 10:42pm.

Through synchronicity, in that auspicious manner of hearing about something from multiple contexts in quick succession, my awareness was primed. It was upon perusing a bookshelf in my father’s den I discovered his copy of this masterpiece.

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The Prophet is a collection of poems written by Kahlil Gibran about all dimensions of life, set to the story of a prophet named Almustafa who spent twelve years in the fictional foreign city of Orphalese. The tale begins on the day he is finally on his way home to embark upon a ship arriving in the harbor. The people of the city have grown to cherish him, gather around and ask him for his wisdom as a parting gift. Before he departs, he responds to the queries of the people. He begins with love, ends on death and addresses all manner of topics in between.

To speak these mystic words of beauty out loud to and for myself was a balm for my freshly grieving heart.

A book by itself, though it contains the words, is dead. It is only upon recitation that the words are again brought to life, animated by the breath and voice of its speakers. Whether it's a chant or sacred song, the idea to utter forth the words on the page has a long and steeped tradition. Upon some reflection, the obviousness of this ought to present itself in considering the stark contrast between sheet music and its performance.

I did not know then that this practice resembles Lectio Divina from Christian monasticism and other traditions, or that the modern default of silent reading was at one time thought odd, as recounted in St. Augustine’s Confessions describing the behavior of St. Ambrose during times of antiquity.

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Reading, once upon a time, was a communal activity performed out loud in groups.

It was only after happening upon John Vervaeke's YouTube lecture series Awakening from The Meaning Crisis in 2020 that I first learned of its practice as such, though I had unknowingly practiced it again in another context.

In late winter of 2017, I recall spending ten days at a remote yoga ashram and farm in British Columbia's Kootenay region. While mantra was an important part of daily practice, one afternoon the teacher asked me to read a couple of passages aloud from the Ramayana, an ancient Indian epic. I learned that this text is recited out loud in its entirety to honor the festive occasions of Rama Navami and Chaitra Navaratri according to the Hindu calendar.

I recall with some fondness other occasions of reading aloud, whether it was an extended Latin passage from my undergrad days where I channeled the gravitas of some Roman orator, or giving voice to a Shakespearean character during high school English classes.

All of this is to extend to you an invitation to slow down and consider resurrecting the ancient norm of reading out loud.

For yourself.

To yourself.

Take the time to feel the vitality of silent words enlivened off the page with the power of your very own voice to your very own ears.

Savor it. Soak in it. Suffuse your being in self-generated sound.

And see what happens.