Tag Archives: silence

Missing silence

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There are two things that make me feel old. One is my back, it aches in the morning and reminds me that I’m not young. It cautions me not to do any physical activities without warming up. It feels older than I feel. The other thing that makes me feel old is my hearing. First of all, I don’t have the range I used to, for example, I can’t hear the tones my fireplace makes when it is turned on and off. I can stand right by it, with my ear almost against it and I hear nothing to the surprise of my wife and daughter who ask, “How can you not hear that?”

But this is something I’m actually ignorant to, other than when I’m told to lower the TV. Although subtitles are always on for me, so I often don’t realize how much I rely on them compared to not having them and struggling. What really makes me feel old with respect to my hearing is my tinnitus, a constant tone that I hear all the time. Most days I can ignore it for long parts of the day. It sort of disappears and the sounds of activity around me drown it out. But when it’s quiet, like right now when everyone is in bed and it’s just me up clicking away on a laptop, this is when it really bugs me.

I don’t get to experience silence anymore. I miss it.

I miss it now, in the morning quiet of the house. I miss it at night when I’m trying to fall asleep. I miss it after a snowfall and the snow muffles all other sounds. I miss it when I’m trying to meditate and it distracts me and becomes the focus of my attention.

We don’t often appreciate what we have until we miss it. I miss silence.

A quiet mind

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While we don’t sit in silence very often (yesterday’s post and one from 2022), we also don’t sit with a quiet mind. Our ‘To Do’ list, obligations, and plans fill our mind with things in the future rather than the present.

The idea of stillness eludes us even when it’s quiet. The notion that we are fully present escapes us. A happy experience? Let’s take a photo to remember it. A pretty sky? Let’s take a video. A beautiful walk? Let’s plan our next meal. We seldom stay in the moment.

Maybe it’s just me and my monkey brain. My brain that tries to meditate and spends its time wandering. I want to wonder but I wander. I want to be quiet and still but I fidget internally as well as externally.

I want the gift, the present, of being present. I seek the now and not the future… Not the thoughts of what’s next, what I must still do, and what I should or should not say to someone not currently with me. Imagining future conversations, or worse, past conversations and how they could have been better.

A quiet mind is not an empty mind, it’s a mind focused and aware of the now. It is not in the past or the future, it is in the presence of the present. I will meditate after writing this. Meditation must come after writing or I’m even less present as I think of what I’m going to write. Even then, my mind will drift, I will accept it and understand that refocusing is part of the process, it actually is the process. But I long for the quiet, the stillness, the moments where I’m fully present.

Perhaps it’s that very longing that prevents me from getting there. The desire to be more present is a desire and want of something not in the the present and thus something I can not seek without being less present. It’s the paradox of letting go: the more you try to let go, the more you are holding on to something… the less still your mind is.

Sitting in silence

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We almost never sit in silence anymore. Music, podcasts, tv, social media, and even humming or singing to ourselves, we fill the silent void.

There is no room for boredom, no space for quiet contemplation, no moments of solitude. Only noise, distractions, and attention to external inputs. What can we fill this quiet space with? What can we pay attention to? And what else now?

Sit in silence for a while. Sit with your own thoughts. Let them linger, let them settle. Let them get past the sensation that you should be doing something, anything but this. And breathe.

Sit in silence for a while.

Silent night

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It’s after 11pm and the house is silent. Everyone is in bed but me. I like the silence of this time of day, or rather night. The air is still outside and I just heard the train that I only ever hear from our house when it’s late and quiet. But recently my tinnitus is so loud that it interrupts the silence.

I have kind of forgotten what it’s really like to have a silent night. Instead I hear a loud and constant tone. During the day I can ignore it, but the quiet of solitude is gone. In it’s place is a constant high pitched stream of relentless sound.

It’s not painful, and in most cases it isn’t even annoying. But at this time of night, the time that I enjoy being alone and in silence, this is the time it can get to me. I miss the silence of solitude when no sound interfered with the evening. I miss the quiet.

Moments of silence

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There was a time when moments of silence were golden. When being alone with my thoughts was quiet and contemplative. When no sound meant calm and inspired serenity.

Now I fill those moments. I listen to books, podcasts, and music. I avoid the silence because that’s when my tinnitus gets loud… and even if I wanted that silence, I wouldn’t get it. My tinnitus is a constant tone, for others it’s like crickets. For anyone who has it, it’s the end of silence.

But there is another kind of silence. It’s the quiet of the mind. It’s like an ocean without waves. This is even more elusive. It is the moments when our minds are not reliving the past or creating unlikely futures. It is when our minds are not thinking about our schedule, worrying about our responsibilities, or planning our next moment, meeting, or meal.

It is when there is nothing to do, but there is no boredom.

It is when nothing is pressing, and there is no need to rush.

It’s also when you don’t seek a distraction. But now the distraction is always there. It looks like Facebook or TikTok, Instagram or Twitter, YouTube or Audible, text or email, WhatsApp or Snapchat.

We have let technology steal away our moments of silence. We are robbed of those golden moments. The dopamine rush of the next notification is too great to resist, and too daunting to allow silence a chance. Silence is no longer a desired state, it is a state of absence to avoid, not a desired state of stillness.

Moments of silence were already elusive, now they are all but nonexistent. I even wonder if for someone younger, who spent their teen years with a smartphone, if silence was ever known, is ever desirable? Or is this just a nostalgic ideal?

It’s quiet now, but my tinnitus sings it’s ever present song, and I put on some background music. The silence is gone.

Sitting in silence

This afternoon I was emptying the dryer and folding my clothes in silence. This would normally not be anything worth noting but it occurred to me that I really don’t sit in silence much anymore. Cutting the grass, doing the dishes, cooking, doing the laundry, I almost always do these and other chores while listening to a book or a podcast. I fill the quiet with voices coming from my phone/headphones.

Folding my laundry today made me realize that I miss the quiet of thinking without a distraction. Just about the only other time I do this is while writing, and maybe that’s why this thought came to me, and why I’m sharing it now.

Who has time to intentionally sit in silence? Who makes that time for themselves? I think I need to find opportunities to do this, to ‘unplug’ from external thoughts and not just sit in, but be in silence. I wonder if the ever-present smartphone has made some people afraid of the silence of being alone?

Stillness

There is a quiet that comes from being still.
A silence felt with settled body and mind.
A calm that seeps in and starts to spill,
Over busy thoughts and plans left behind.

Stillness envelops, quiet reigns.
Heart rate slows, gradually slows.
Nothing bothersome remains.
The quite settles, like gentle prose.

Breaths deepen, eyes close.
Awareness of how the breath flows.

Stillness envelops, quiet reigns.
Only tranquility remains.

The sound of snow falling

I love the lack of sound sometimes when it snows. The sound of an absence of sound is what I’m trying to describe. There is a kind of muffled silence that is produced by snow silently landing around you, while all surfaces are covered by puffy snowflakes.

It’s empty, but not like a void.

It’s silent, but somehow not noiseless.

It’s solitude without loneliness.

It’s the sound of snow falling, but there is no sound.

Image by Sheila Stewart