One of the things I find most attractive about the monastic path is the role of silence. The monastery is a place—one of the very few places left on Earth—where silence is cultivated. For most of us, life thrums with noise, but the monastic world acknowledges and respects the value of silence.
For writers, silence is a priceless gift. “In the attitude of silence, the soul finds the path in a clearer light,” wrote Mahatma Gandhi. “And what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.” What could be more applicable to writers that this? So often, writing is a stumble through confusion, awkwardness, and uncertainy with that “crystal clearness” remaining a longed-for and unattainable goal. If silence helps the soul find a “clearer light,” then every writer should cultivate it.
But what is silence, exactly? And how do we create it? Though it sounds like a relatively easy thing to attain, it is actually rather difficult to build silence into your life. The first step is to realize that silence isn’t just one thing. There are actually three types of silence—and all need to be nurtured to bring create true silence.
Environmental Silence. Many years ago, I stayed for several months in a village in rural India. To call the village “remote” is an understatement. Most of the inhabitants had never been more than a few kilometers from their homes. The village had no running water or electricity. The houses were made of mud, cooking was done over burning cowdung, and everyone slept under the stars. It was, in other words, a world apart from anything I’d ever known.
I will never forget the first few nights I spent in the village. I was astonished by two things: The utter darkness of a place without lighting, especially on moonless nights. And the silence. No motor traffic came anywhere near the village, just horse-drawn carts that traveled only during the day. No distant freeway noise interrupted the quiet. There were, of course, no television sets, no radios, no phones, no IPODS (in those days, it would have been tape players). Without electricity, there wasn’t even the hum of air conditioners or refrigerators. There was simply silence.
This kind of silence—a simple lack of noise in the world around you—is extremely difficult to come by in an urban world. But if you can manage it, you will be amazed at how it opens and frees you. Without the constant external noise of modern life, your brain isn’t constantly processing, screening out, and trying to ignore the jumble going on in the background. When you no longer have that continual screening process going on, your thinking becomes spacious and relaxed. In this open state, ideas come freely and unhindered, and creativity soars. Try turning down the volume of everyday life, finding silent (or at least quiet) places, and see what happens to your writing.
Verbal silence. Choosing not to speak is the kind of silence we often associate with the monastic life. While monks do not actually take “vows of silence” as is commonly believed, most do observe long periods of silence during their daily life. The practice of verbal silence is believed to help monks achieve higher states of spiritual purity and to come closer to God.
For writers, periods of verbal silence have other benefits. For one thing, not speaking for a time helps improve focus. Most of our talk is pure distraction—a way of keeping us from getting down to the hard work of writing. When we choose not to speak for awhile, we find our minds clearing and sharpening, and our concentration improving. For another thing, verbal silence helps us come in touch with mythic, nonrational awareness. Constant verbal chatter keeps us in the world of ordinary consciousness, where our immediate needs take precedence and practicality is king. Practicing silence helps lift us out of that world and opens us to other, broader realities.
Internal Silence. So, you’ve created a silent space to work in. You’ve turned off as many of the noise-makers in your life as you can. You’ve found a place to be alone, so you can be verbally silent for awhile. You are ready to work in a space without noise. Except your brain won’t quiet down. You think about the bills you need to pay, about the fact that you’re out of bread, about the friend who’s waiting for you to call. For no reason, your thoughts go to a conflict with a coworker from the week before, a report due in two weeks, a summer at a lake from 1995.
Internal silence is the hardest type to achieve. The cacaphony inside our own heads is the most stubborn and intrusive noise of all, and it can defeat the entire purpose of environmental and verbal silence. Internal silence something that can only be achieved with meditative practice and mindfulness, by learning to be present and still—and that is a topic for another post, or I should say for many, many other posts.
This quick overview is just a glimpse of the nature of silence and its benefits for writers. Tomorrow, I’ll delve a little more into my own experiences—and struggles—with achieving silence and the benefits it has brought me.
Years ago I used to have the radio on all the time, watch news broadcasts and read newspapers avidly. Now I’m happy to go through the whole day without external noise. My husband and I talk together but quite often will go hours without speaking, quite comfortable not to have to talk for the sake of talking. We now live on the north coast of North Cyprus and when you go out at night, you may here a few distant noises, but on the whole it is silent. I have lived in a few rural areas, would never return to city life now, and treasure silence. It’s a blessing.
How lovely that must be. I’ll try to use you as an example as I turn down the noise in my own life. And what a wonderful place to live.