...
Seriously!
Do it.
Please?
...
How long did you make it before turning back to your screen? Two minutes? Four? Eleven? (I'm honestly interested to know so feel free to comment or message me if you want.)
What drew you back here and away from the stillness in that period? (If you did it... you sneaky [and very few] readers...) My guess is the common response of "I don't have time for that" or the "MUST. TOUCH. PHONE." compulsion. Waiting on a message? Checking social media? Yearning for the various connections afforded us by the wonder of the World Wide Web?
I get those feels.
We act like time is this precious commodity, so rare and so sought after. Yet those few and far between moments of just silence can seemingly stretch out for days. It can feel like time has morphed into crazy dream world nonsense, where nothing is logical and keeping track is fruitless. Or maybe it does turn into actual dream time because we're so unused to a lack of things that our bodes respond by fleeing to sleep.
I *really* get that one..
I've been observing my own reaction to silence in the past several days. It's been an adventure. Those times of silence are pregnant, extremely so in fact, ready to pop at any second with the words and songs and thoughts bubbling within. Sometime it's cool to have all that going on and to attend to it in a meaningful way within a time of silence. Other times (more often as of late), I find it super disappointing to have a million things running and bouncing through the not-too-creepy funhouse of my mind.
My to-dos pop up unbidden and with force. I think through and ponder the plan for things as small as how I'll prepare breakfast tomorrow. Constantly I weigh the importance of various tasks to figure out which to drop and which to accomplish, because the list never ends and the chaos only kind of wanes. It's as if some sweaty, maniacal, green-visored little dude is sitting in my prefrontal cortex and cluttering the place with an infinite roll of accomplishment aspirations.
In my silence, even without all the lists there is always music. I am convinced I have a tendency/condition thing called Perpetual Music Track — basically I have a song in my head at all times. That constant Involuntary Musical Imagery (INMI) switches quickly and sometimes violently, and the worst is when songs stack and meld into one another in unpleasant ways. I might be able to block out the running to-dos, but my INMI is relentless. After writing my thesis on the topic, I have been hyperaware of these pervasive occurrences. Since starting this blog my mind has cycled rapidly through 2–3 church chants/hymns, a couple of Zumba songs, and an Advent carol. The warm-up song from tonight's Zumba class is now weirdly layering with "People Look East" (the Advent carol) and it's a jarring combo.
Starting to grasp my struggle?
Back at UofA, one of my favorite yoga instructors would occasionally pause at the start of class for everyone to gather a personal point of focus for the class. It would be the center thought of the practice, and as often as we could remember we were to draw our minds back to that meditation. With that, I was somewhat successful. But really, that is not the same thing as experiencing silence in its heavy and awkward fullness.
On Monday evening, I attended a chant prayer service with a roomie, the one I mentioned not too long ago who is obsessed with women's professional tennis. It was a peaceful and beautiful service with people from various religious backgrounds and experience. I'm a sucker for a good chant, so I really liked it. One part of the program was to sit in silence. I haven't a clue how long we sat there; I spent part of the time praying, part of it thinking, and the last bit was a spaced out experience I can't really articulate and what could have been the beginning stages of falling asleep (but likely not because I felt very alert and not guilty once the silence ended). As we were leaving Richmond Hill, P (my roomie) asked how I felt about the period of silence. He explained that he generally likes silence, but that after a point found it "really uncomfortable".
I wasn't able to communicate it at the time, but what bothered me more than the awkwardness was my brain's hyperactive whatnots. Beyond the centering peace of praying, my thoughts took off in every direction. The list maker little guy was beating at the glass doors, both chubby hands packed full with intimidating lists, so I tried to draw my thoughts to my surroundings and the present. It was rather difficult.
Silence isn't easy. It's an anxious beast, tamed by some and ferocious to many.
It's also not a necessary or valued practice in our super connected, high tech lives. Lately, I've taken to seeking it in various ways. Perhaps I'll even utilize it as offense like my journalism degree roomie (K) taught me! (Apparently people will keep talking if you're silent for long enough. They too can't handle the awkward.)
We are about to leave for a GotH retreat in snow-covered Boston to — surprise — chill with monks (or whatever the Episcopalian equivalent is). I'm pumped for the trip and for time out of the grind, and super thrilled for an opportunity to attend to my silence and hopefully to hone my focus during stillness. Perhaps a few days at a monastery can develop my thoughts on this matter.
"Silence is a true friend who never betrays." — Confucius
So ready to become better acquainted with this pal.
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