Sh-h-h-h-h
The music is not in the notes but
in the silence between.
– – – Wolfgang Amadeus Motzard
I take a four mile walk with a friend three times a week. We chat, we catch each other up on what we’re doing, we listen, we commiserate, we laugh hysterically. Talking and laughing are
great forms of therapy but there’s something else we do that’s just as important. We go silent.
He and I consider our walking non-negotiable so we can stay spry and strong. We also consider the silences to be non-negotiable as we become aware of our breathing and our strong connection. We
have plenty of quiet in our lives since we each live alone, but there’s
something about being silent together that is comforting and informative. It feels like the conversation hasn’t stopped. We’re considering the things we just discussed, we’re weighing them and we’re going deeper. Sometimes it seems like we’re reading each other’s minds although we’re not doing it deliberately. We’re just getting to know one another in a far more profound way than filling up the space with words.
Turning our focus inward helps to stop the loud and persistent mind chatter. It softens the chaos all around us. I love this quote by Ram Dass: “The quieter you become, the more you can hear.”
That may be true but it can be uncomfortable to hear what we’re really thinking. Maybe we think our thoughts are not politically correct. Maybe we’re critical of ourselves or someone else. Maybe we think that anger or negative thoughts aren’t spiritual. For me,
everything that is true is spiritual. I don’t measure spirituality in content or elegance. I measure it in the willingness to go into the center of things, the truth, and no matter what we find, no matter how messy it is, to treat ourselves with kindness.
The first time I meet with a prospective writing client, I barely talk. Besides a few potent questions, I listen. It isn’t my job to show my client who I am. I don’t become competitive and hope she’ll like me and think I’m great. I don’t try to be funny or smart and I don’t consider breaks in the conversation to be a problem. I don’t try to fill
them up with extraneous thoughts that don’t matter. I see them as a time for us both to evaluate what the other person needs and wants, to understand their expectations and see if we can fulfill them for each other. And to see if we like each other.
Writing a memoir for another person requires a delicate balance of speaking and listening. The client is about to spill her guts to a stranger so she needs to observe me and see if she feels safe. She needs to know that I’m not judging her. For my part, I need to determine if I can get the material that I need from her in order to write an interesting and authentic book. I need to hear what she’s saying and what she’s not saying. What is true and what is not. When people first meet, it’s natural to hide the parts of ourselves that make us feel shame, but my client and I won’t have much
time to process that so I have to evaluate quickly whether or not she’ll eventually let go and tell the truth.
I worked with an award winning singer/actress some years ago, and when I asked her to tell me her impression of various artists she had worked with, she said, “He was lovely. She was lovely. They were
lovely.” That didn’t work. It’s not that I was looking for gossip or negativity. I don’t write those kinds of books. But I needed to know who inspired my client, whom she liked and who was difficult. I was looking for her honest reactions about how people made her feel. She stood firm in her “lovely” descriptions so I determined that she wasn’t a good candidate for a memoir. She didn’t like talking about her life or about anyone else, so I bowed out. If I hadn’t been silent and listened to her, I might have taken on a project that I couldn’t do and it wouldn’t have ended well.
In this discussion of silence, however, there is another side to it. While choosing to stay silent is a gift, when its imposed on someone, it’s a form of cruelty. The idea that children should be seen but not heard teaches us not to speak up in our lives when it’s important that we do. We want approval so we say “yes” when we mean “no.” We say we like things that we don’t. My first serious relationship was with a controlling and abusive man. He didn’t allow me to say what I wanted to say, so eventually, I stopped voicing my opinions and I lost myself. When I was at a play with a girlfriend, during intermission she asked me if I liked it or not. I hesitated. I told her I liked it and when she said she didn’t, I told her I didn’t either. “Well do you or don’t you?” she asked me. I was embarrassed because I honestly didn’t know.
My dear friend, Olympia Dukakis said, “Sometimes I feel as if four thousand years of silencing women, of the fear of women who were burned in oil or eviscerated in front of their daughters. is imprinted deep within and has altered my DNA.”
Demanding silence can be dangerous like the examples above, but in this unpredictable world, it can be a powerful tool. It can be a relief, a resting place. A “getting to know you” place. It can be a way to think clearly and allow your brain to process your emotions rather than repress them. I had lunch a few times with a friend who talked so fast and furiously, she choked herself. I could never get a word in. I waitedfor openings to speak but they didn’t show up so I asked her kindly if she could pause at the end of her sentences. “That would make it easier for me to take my turn,” I said.
“I don’t like pauses,” she told me. “If you want to say something, just interrupt me.”
I haven’t seen her since.
I consider silence as part of a conversation. It can help us understand who people are and whether we’re a good match or not. Incessant talking about yourself and what you think does the
opposite. It’s a way to hide. If silence is a problem, the relationship will follow suit.
I heard a wonderful quote recently: “Whatever the question, silence is always the best answer.”
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