Today is one of those days where I have nothing new to say. All of my ideas have run dry and my brain is making a soft whirring sound from being overrun with words. This got me thinking a lot about the concept of silence and what happens to us in the quiet.As a wannabee meditator I have spent a lot of time in the quiet. I’ve concentrated on my breathing and visualized myself going places. I’ve done the whole Joe Dispenza thing of disconnecting from my programming and being in the NOW. But real silence is about more than that, it’s also a way of life. I remember when we were kids learning about the Qur’an in school and there was that line about not backbiting that said something to the effect of backbiting is like “eating lahm akhiki mayet” (eating your brother’s dead carcass). Silence, in that vein, was a choice, one in which you clung to your virtue.

But I wonder what silence means for you? Is it a necessary break, a choice, or just a fact of life?

When I was young I had the oddest habit of sitting under my desk when things got too loud. I would be in the middle of studying overwhelmed and scared and seek refuge under my desk to find the “quiet”. Quiet for me was a literal place, one which I would seek out constantly.As I grew older I found meditation and with it a necessary outlet for my overload of thoughts. Meditation gave me the space to reconnect with myself and sort through my thoughts to find those I most believed in.

“Silence can be so damn loud”, I’ve heard explicated a hundred times. In a culture where we’re overrun with the sounds of traffic, construction and even adhan (call to prayer) we can barely find a moment just to ourselves. And yet maybe that’s why we need silence the most. The cure for something is often in its opposite, and silence for us is a must (even if we don’t believe in it).I once did an interview with a vipassana practicing yogi (silent meditator) about the classes she did for war refugees. She commented about how most of them would not be able to remain silent, because silence reminded them too much of what they’d been through. For them, silence was when all the trauma caught up and they weren’t be able to stomach it. This story stayed with me as a cautionary example of human nature, as well as, as a piece of evidence of how transformative quiet could be. In her vipassana practice the yogi would get her participants to dive deep into their hurt and uncover moments of alarm or fear. To a large extent she was successful through quiet (and breathing) to help the refugees move past physical and mental hurts and into stronger more stable versions of themselves.

But there is more to quiet than just a lack of words. Quiet is also a way of thinking. In Susan Cain’s celebrated “Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking”, Cain introduces this idea of quiet fortitude, an homage to the shy and courageous introverts. Cain talks about the power of thinkers to change the world, using their perceived silence as their weapon. In Cain’s world silence is a given part of some of our makeup, one which acts as a place to retreat to in order to emerge with strength.

A few years ago I wrote a piece titled “Bosslady” it was about what it means to be silent as a woman, or to be perceived as a silent woman. Here is an outtake that I still believe is relevant today:  

There are many things said about (and to) women in life and in business. There are stereotypes about what a woman should do or say to “make it”, how bossy or bitchy she needs to be, different ideas about pushiness vs. listening, exclamations to “be yourself” and “do it your way”. But usually the subtext was the same: whatever you chose to be, however you chose to do it, it must be loud.

And that was always where I fell short.

I didn’t want to be loud.

And it wasn’t because I was shy or lazy or afraid of it, but because I was so, so tired of loud. Anybody could be loud (heck, everybody usually was). There was nothing interesting or new or impressive about loud. Quite the contrary, actually. In my experience, loud usually meant you were full of shit.

 Loud was boring.

Loud was predictable as fuck.

Loud was just too easy.

As a woman living in the 21^st century I still constantly feel the pressure to be louder. To be “out there”. To be more present. To post. To argue. To make my opinion be beard. My writing— in itself— is an experiment in being more daring and involved. And yet I fully believe that we do not need to be so “loud” in order to be heard. Sometimes withdrawing and being silent can ring just as strongly as a loud comment. It just isn’t praised as much.

I recently started piano lessons. In piano the pause is valued as much as the tone. Whether it’s a crochet or a semibreve, both denote a rest in play that brings the melody together in a way it wouldn’t come without the pause. I believe that that is also true in our lives. We need both noise and silence in order to function at our most optimal. It is only through one that the other can come to the forefront. So, when it comes up for you next, I would embrace the silence. See what emerges in the quiet. Maybe make “quiet” a place, just as I did. I bet you’ll be stunned at what you find there.

Silently yours,

Girl With One Earring

Photo Credit: Akram Reda