Nothing and Everything All at Once
The Silence Diary
The first weekend in January, I spent an off-grid weekend with several other women deep in the Colorado Rockies. Though off-grid, which means we didn't have cell service, electricity, or running water, we were, in fact, rusticating in yurts with amenities like queen beds cozied with heavy duvet covers, a propane stove to prepare food and solar panels running two lamps. Perhaps the most rustic component of the weekend was the fire-burning stove we used for heat. Often, when people refer to fire-burning stoves, it is with a romantic lilt in their tone. I felt that way, anticipating our weekend deep in the mountains with a glowing fire as the backdrop.
We arrived late afternoon, and the fire was out, though the yurt was still warmed. As I unpacked my bag, the space was silent. There is nothing electric to beep or ding, no cell service, no dishwasher hum or thump of my teenagers' music. The only possible sound to fill the air was the crackle and pop of the fire. Otherwise, it was silent. The kind of silence you immediately notice, more because of what isn't present than what is. There was no noise, and I felt its absence as though it were tangible. We were at more than 11,000 feet in elevation, and there is surprisingly little evidence of animal life—few birds or squirrels and the small ground animals that live there hibernate for the winter. I couldn't help but think about life before radio, television, beeping household appliances, and now a digital universe that creates near-constant chatter in our environments. With the fire out, the yurt felt decidedly less romantic; frankly, all I could pay attention to was the quietness.
When was the last time you spent time silently in your home? Or read a book in the quietness of a room with nothing to fill the air but the sound of your breath and turning pages? I have a reverence for silence, yet I cannot answer this question. I do read a lot, which is inherently a silent activity. However, I've found a way to add sound even to this quiet pursuit. In the evenings, I spend time in a serene room in our home, intentionally designed with a record player and no TV. Most evenings, I have vinyl spinning in the background while I read.
As I take stock of my relationship with silence, I see a few areas where I embrace it. I sometimes use my short commute to escape the constant clamor of my life. When I do, I hear engine sounds from my car that go unnoticed when I am focused on a podcast or music. Notably, when I drive in silence, I also notice myself more. It sounds funny, but there is a way of being that feels solid or in real-time that I often don't feel when I am distracted by noise. As I write this, I feel sheepish about taking any moment for granted by not noticing my aliveness. Yet, for millions of humans walking this planet, there is rarely a moment of quiet allowing focus on their own being, aliveness, or breath. We are so distracted by constant input and stimulation that we forget we are alive. I imagine that in previous generations, where there were innumerable silent activities in a day, humans were more aware of their aliveness and, in turn, their mortality. It is a paradox that silence is the thing that jolts us into the truth of our mortality—that it takes a landscape of seemingly nothing to reveal everything.
In climates with snow, winter offers a season of silence like no other, partly because snow absorbs sound. Additionally, there is minimal movement and eerily little sound; animals are hibernating or have migrated, and there aren't plants and leaves to rustle in the wind.
"In winter silence is visible; snow is silence become visible." —Max Picard
A winter forest brings me so deeply into myself that I find solace within, a stillness that offers an internal settling of my soul. Through the void of sound and movement, I feel connected to everything, everywhere, all at once. There is a pure offering in a snow-covered forest; simple truths available to those who dare venture into its chilled edges. However, noticing winter's gift requires intention and attention (mindfulness). For some, it is not a question of noticing the silence as much as it is a question of tolerating it. We live in a loud, chattering, fractured world, and it can feel uncomfortable or foreign to exist without a constant feed of distraction. To become tolerant of silence requires intentionally culling out moments of quiet in the face of the dinging, ringing, alerting, frantic, frenzied buzz of life in the 21st century. And there is good reason to challenge yourself to regular moments of quiet. Research now supports what poets and philosophers have long intuitively understood: silence facilitates human creativity, fosters spiritual connections, and sparks the generation of new ideas. And, let's not forget the restful and restorative effects of regular quiet time.
Though I am exploring the gifts of silence, there is also a darker experience to acknowledge. The silence that comes after someone tells you they have a terminal diagnosis or want a divorce, or in a war-torn landscape left destroyed and devoid of life. The silence of grief—a quiet that empties the soul. Though counter-intuitive, the impact remains the same, whether it's the eerie void of dark silence or the peaceful silence of sanctuary. When we are free from external inputs and stimuli, we embark on an inward journey, gaining a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place within the interconnectedness of life.
Back in the yurt, nighttime fell, and I wondered what it would be like to sleep with a fire roaring just three feet away from my bed—I like sleeping in total darkness and total silence. The fire was far from quiet, yet the sounds of burning wood turned out to be meditative, like sleeping on an old steam train chugging along with rhythmic movement and sound. I could feel the silence throughout the rest of the yurt despite the constant and ever-changing sounds from the stove. It was as if the crackling of burning logs was woven through with wisps of quiet—a mix of movement and stillness that soothed me into a peaceful sleep. When I awoke, the air was chilled; only embers and ash remained of the blazing fire. The yurt, once again, silent.
Enjoy the slow- Heather