The Silent Towers
They were not built in haste.
They were not raised by hands.
They grew slowly, unseen, beneath water that itself seemed lifeless.
For centuries, the lake covered them—
salt-heavy, alkaline, inhospitable.
And yet, from that harshness arose form, firmness, and quiet beauty.
The tufa towers remind us that what appears barren is often secretly creative.
Spiritual life, too, is like this.
Much of it happens below the surface—
in silence, repetition, waiting.
Japa that seems dry.
Prayer that feels unanswered.
Days that appear unchanged.
But unseen reactions are taking place.
Drop by drop, the spring meets the lake.
Moment by moment, effort meets grace.
And something solid begins to form within.
Only when the waters recede—
when time pulls back its veil—
do we see what was being shaped all along.
The tufa does not shout.
It does not decorate itself.
It stands—weathered, rough, unpolished—
bearing witness to patience.
Perhaps that is its quiet teaching:
True strength does not announce itself.
It simply remains.
When Silence Takes Form: Lessons from the Tufa Towers
Some landscapes speak loudly—through colour, abundance, and movement.
Others remain almost austere, asking the viewer to slow down, to look longer, to listen.
The tufa towers of Mono Lake belong to the second kind.
Rising like ancient sentinels from a stark, mineral-rich land, these formations were not sculpted by wind or carved by force. They were shaped patiently, underwater, over centuries. Freshwater springs carrying calcium rose invisibly from the lakebed. When they met the alkaline waters of the lake, a quiet chemical dialogue took place. Stone was born—slowly, silently.
For a very long time, these towers remained hidden. Only when the lake receded did their presence become known.
There is something profoundly instructive in this.
In spiritual life, we often expect visible signs of progress—clarity, emotion, reassurance. But the deepest transformations occur beneath the surface. Repeated japa that feels dry, prayer offered without fervour, duties performed without recognition—these are like the submerged years of the tufa. Nothing appears to be happening, yet something irreversible is taking shape.
Silence, when sustained, acquires form.
The tufa towers do not display symmetry or polish. They are rough, uneven, sometimes fragile in appearance. And yet they endure. Their strength lies not in refinement, but in patience accumulated over time. They stand as reminders that endurance is not dramatic; it is faithful.
Nature here mirrors a timeless spiritual truth:
That which is formed slowly lasts longer.
When circumstances lower the waters of our lives—when supports are removed, when certainties recede—we begin to see what has actually been built within us. Not what was spoken, but what was practiced. Not what was proclaimed, but what was lived quietly.
The tufa towers do not seek attention. They simply remain, bearing witness to a long, unseen process. In that stillness, they offer their teaching:
Growth does not need applause.
Depth does not need display.
What is real will reveal itself in time.
