Another paradox of this point of stillness, is that descriptive words fail us, they may give us a sense of stillness, a sense of silent communion, but never the transcendent whole of it. Just as there is always a certain irony in the attempt to write or speak (let alone teach) about spiritual silence, so too, "stillness" transcends words. But we try. (Susan Nettleton)
Poet Walt Whitman (19th century, Song of Myself)
There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me..
I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on...
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal life—it is Happiness.
In Whitman's life time, he experienced times of economic upheaval, a resurgence of the Cholera Pandemic (1849) in New York City where over 5,000 died, and the American Civil War during which he devoted himself to carrying for wounded soldiers in the hospitals of Washington D.C.