Sounds of Silence
“Silence is something more than just a pause; it is that enchanted place where space is cleared and time is stayed and the horizon itself expands.”
My world is very quiet these days. I expect yours is too. Last night I stood on our island deck and there was not a sound to be heard. No cars, planes, or cargo ships passing through Georgia Strait. No tree frogs, owls, or rustling leaves – even the crowing rooster on the neighbouring farm, whose internal clock is out of whack, was silent. The sky was overcast, and not being able to see the moon or the stars intensified the silence of the night.
At times, I find the silence unnerving. When I am at our island home alone and I wake up during the night, it can terrify me. I think it’s because I know there are sheep just across the fence, and deer in the trees, and bats swooping through the night air, and yet I hear nothing. It feels almost apocalyptic at times, like the world has come to an end and I’m the only survivor. But then, this feeling usually visits me during those wee morning hours when I jolt awake, filled with anxiety.
In many shamanic societies, if you came to a medicine person complaining of being disheartened, dispirited, or depressed, one of the questions they would ask is: When did you stop finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence?” - Gabrielle Roth
For the most part, I find silence comforting. When I am writing or reading books I want to learn from, I escape to my office, or I head to our island home, so I can wrap myself in silence. At these times, I need to melt into silence not only to absorb but also to listen to my mind and body respond. I need silence to hear my own thoughts. It makes sense doesn’t it, that silent and listen have the same letters?
Silence has not always been a comfort. When I was young, my mother would show her anger or displeasure through silence. Thich Nhat Hanh calls this strained silence, “where fear and anger filled the air and made life unbearable.” In his book, Speaking and Language, the novelist and sociologist Paul Goodman examines the nine types of silence present in life, and writes of “the noisy silence of resentment and self-recrimination, loud and subvocal speech but sullen to say it.” I have certainly also lived in that silence, berating myself for my shortcomings.
The Japanese word for silence, mokurai, combines moku, silence, with rai, thunder, creating a sense of silence as a powerful force, a reverse thunder. For me, this describes communal silence. I feel the air charged with energy when I am in silence with others. I have experienced this walking the Camino with other pilgrims, holding space during a Clearness Committee, and attending silent retreats.
Diane Ackerman, a naturalist, and author of Dawn Light, writes about Nyepi, a national day of silence that follows the dark moon of the spring equinox and ushers in the Balinese New Year.
On this Hindu holiday, both car and foot traffic are prohibited (except for emergency vehicles), radio and TV must play low if at all; village wardens keep people off the beaches; work, socializing, and even lovemaking stops, as a nation sits and falls silent together, for one day of introspection in an otherwise hectic year. Not only does the dawn sound different, it smells different. Without the reeking exhaust from cars and trucks masking subtler scents, the air smells naturally floral, and it's enriched by the green aromas of vine-clad forests.
During Nyepi, surrounded by the incense of wildflowers, one mulls over values, beholds the balance of nature, meditates on love, compassion, kindness, patience. Dogs bark, cicadas call shrilly, but the streets breathe a quiet rare for that clamorous island, a silence framed like a painting. Not the silence of deep space, nor the hush of a dark room, but an achieved silence, a found silence that's refined and full.
Achieved silence is one I have never experienced. But over these past months, there have been days when I feel as though I have been on the edge of this kind of silence. I head out for an early morning walk with the dog. There are fewer cars on the road and only the occasional floatplane. Eagles soar overhead, floating silently on thermals. Squirrels root around in the leaves, preparing for winter. People keep their distance, stepping off the path as I approach. We smile at each other, a silent greeting. Some don’t smile or even glance my way, lost in thought. It is a shared silence, hope hangs in the air. Solitary, but together, we lean into a conscious silence that almost mirrors the Balinese experience.