Eulogy for Silence
Silence
Missing. Gone. Remembered.This year I have lived without silence. The non-silence began some time back, but in 2018, I officially observed the total absence of silence in my life. I mean this literally, not metaphorically. It's not that I've become a noisier person. It's that I've lost the gift, the capacity for silence.
Noise
The world is full of noise. Noise accompanies a plethora of distractions, entertainments, and pretty much all of ordinary life. Noise often equals a sign of vigor, of life. I've been told that in the Midwest it's possible to hear the corn grow! I like many noises, or what most of us would call sounds. Waves on the shore, laughter, a Chopin concerto, the train arriving at the platform, onions hitting hot oil in a skillet, the voice of my child or lover.I'm so thankful that I can hear! But too much noise numbs. Overwhelms. Drowns thought. Steals focus. It may mean we make big movements rather than subtle shifts, or shout when we’d rather whisper.Thankfully, it’s possible to step back from noise that overwhelms. Lower the volume. Select the venue. Close the screen.This choice is a privilege, I know. It means someone is 1) aware, and 2) has agency. Such beautiful things.
The Sound of Silence
This year, no matter how far back I step, noise stays with me, steadily shrilling between my ears, keeping me from the simple, splendid sublimity of silence.Oh, silence, how I loved you. Not constantly, but, like eating fresh baklava, but occasionally and with the appreciation of my whole being. Total, complete silence that is so profound that I can hear the beating of my heart. Silence so wide and deep that for a moment I am in tune with the cosmos.The best time and place to bathe in utter silence free from all sounds—animal, human, or machine—is night time in the desert.
I remember the magic of total silence in our tent after dark—the space between an inhale and an exhale before sleep enfolded me. Or the expansive silence in the middle of the night when I’d step out under an indigo sky bristling with a million points of light. Not a car, not a cricket, not another soul stirring the still air. The earth. The Milky Way. Me and Silence.
God is the friend of silence. See how nature — trees, flowers, grass — grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence. We need silence to be able to touch souls.” – Mother Teresa
But the ringing in my ears never stops. I now ask people to repeat what they've said because certain tones completely miss me. Sometimes I just smile and nod instead of asking.Several years of taking steroids may be why. I’m not sure. For the record, John Denver and the Carpenters are not to blame. I didn't listen to loud music. Ever.I no longer take steroids, but there’s no remission in the steady tone in my ears. Tinnitus is what it is. I’m going to see a specialist and see if anything can be done. But I don’t think there’s a way back to silence. And I grieve. Writing a eulogy to silence is one way to carry the grief of this loss. Missing. Gone. But remembered. I’m thankful for the times I did pause to take in silence when it was available, possible for me. And yes, I wish I’d done it more. Writing is also a way to explore a new intention: to develop a practice that brings me close to the sensation that was silence: stillness. I may no longer hear my heart beat, but when I calm my body, I can feel it.
Over to you
What change/s have you named in 2018? If your change/s involved loss (all change involves loss) how do you carry your grief? Finally, how will you participate in your grief and healing? Is there something else that can take you close to the sensation, the experience, of what that is missing, gone, but still remembered?