I remember the first time I was struck by the sound of silence. I was nineteen years old and had recently arrived from Puerto Rico to attend college in Florida. I had never noticed how loud the vibrations of silence could feel. During that stage of my life all I could associate with silence was pure loneliness. The next day I called my mother to tell her that I was returning home. Looking back at all the lessons I have learned about living with silence since then, I am grateful that she opposed my return.
The memories of my childhood bring me back to a warm island so small that there was little physical space between people. In that convivial society I regularly heard all kinds of conversations and/or music coming from open windows. While reading for pleasure was not commonly practiced in my circle, there was a rich oral tradition. I often found myself in gatherings in which everyone was expected to participate in conversations no matter how trivial. Reading in public, at the dinner table or to each other was unheard of. Other than in Catholic ceremonies, sitting in silence with others was quite rare. I was taught to believe that being silent was lonely and anti-social.
Growing up in such an environment, I was unaware of alternative experiences or attitudes. But I remember often feeling overwhelmed by the constant chatter around me, to the point that I saw a doctor about it; he was unable to reach a clear diagnosis. Moreover, I could never find much solace in the dogma of my Catholic upbringing. Instead I found serenity sitting on the branches of my favorite royal poinciana tree where I daydreamed for hours. Even though several classmates considered me a close friend, I found few people with whom to discuss what deeply mattered to me. In a way I was spiritually lonely. However, I treasured my correspondence with my revered Venezuelan grandmother, Ita (for “abuelita”), who lived abroad for most of my childhood. Our written exchanges, in a way a form of “silent” communication, made me feel deeply connected and cultivated the seeds of my enthusiasm for literature. Outside of my relationship with Ita, I often felt an inexplicable yearning in an environment filled with voice and sound. While so much unchanneled energy overwhelmed and exhausted me, something vital was missing. Looking back, I realize that my true self got lost in the world of sound.
Decades after my initial encounter with silence that Friday night, I reflect on how my experiences with silence have evolved. One of the most important experiences of my early twenties was falling in love with reading in a college literature class. Besides providing intellectual stimulation, reading offered a sense of peace. “Listening” to the “quiet” voices of authors calmed my nervous system as I was transported to myriad places where I met characters with whom I could “discuss” fundamental and universal themes. Reading led me to discover a new form of spirituality coming from the East. Thich Nhat Hanh’s interpretation of Buddhism spoke to the depths of my heart and helped me connect to my inner voice, which had before been quieted by Catholic dogma. The healing and sense of connection I receive from reading Thay’s writings bring me back to my enriching correspondence with Ita. Thanks to Thay’s recommendations I have also been able to delight in communal silence through my yearly visits to Plum Village and weekly sangha gatherings. In Thay’s words, I am delighted that in my life “the soundless wins over the sound.”
I have become deeply aware that all of creation emanates vibrations which are hard to detect by the human ear, but that we can listen to if we really pay attention. I look forward to listening to these humming, lulling vibrations. I have added prolonged periods of silence to my daily mindfulness practice. I now know to retreat when empty words become overwhelming. I feel at home in different parts of the world and create a sanctuary for myself wherever I may be in the world. But if a sanctuary is unavailable, I am also certain that my inner oasis is always within reach. Pilgrimages, short or long, are my favorite. A special one for me is in Plum Village’s Lower Hamlet. I stroll through the majestic poplar “cathedral” until I find Thay’s favorite sitting area in front of the stream. As I sit in that quiet space, I send him a grateful, healing message.
I have come to appreciate that verbal communication is just one of many ways to connect with the world. Communion with the natural world is one of my most cherished among these, as I believe in the supremacy of the natural over the supernatural. I feel a vital interconnection between myself and trees. As I breathe in and out, I comprehend that our exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide is fundamental for both of our existences. I delight and get lost in the intricate patterns of their trunks as secret codes or ancient languages that speak of their long histories on earth. Like them, I too am covered with marks and scars in which my story can be read.
I also worship mountains and, like the Hindu goddess Parvati, feel like their daughter. As my feet touch the ground, I can feel our vibrational exchange, a strong energizing bond. In communion with the Earth I feel it as a warm, huge shelter, a timeless sanctuary. My ego slowly disintegrates with each step. Thay reminds us to “look around…what you see is not your environment, what you see, it is you!”. I also feel the numinous presence of Earth’s indigenous ancestors in a land they honored and respected. They inspire me, as they possess the sacred code of how to live in communion with the Earth. While I walk on their sacred land I thank them and send them loving messages. I breathe as one with the Earth and my ancestors.
Thanks to my experiences with silence, I can now better comprehend and appreciate non-verbal communication. Kind, non-verbal gestures now say more to me than a thousand words. I hear the messages transmitted by compassionate eyes and sincere smiles. I am equally impressed by the ways in which animals interact, especially the low-frequency rumbles that elephants emanate to communicate, even with the humans who respect and care for them. “Elephants truly can read your heart – and when you have earned their love, they never forget it,” says Angela Sheldrick, director of the David Sheldrick Wildlife trust in Kenya, where I sponsor orphan elephants Malima and Larro. One of my favorite stories about the Buddha recounts how he retreated when his sangha could not get along. He spent time with the elephants and learned their language.
Thich Nhat Hanh makes a variety of references to the concept of silence. In Silence he describes it as “thundering” and “noble”. His phrases “the soundless wins over the sound” and “sound yields to silence” illustrate silence’s powerful possibilities. He cites beloved Vietnamese singer Trinh Cong Son’s expression, “the resting notes in the music.” We can draw on the “oasis of sound” to control our “radio non-stop thinking.”. “Consider the strength that is possible in silent action,” he writes, expressing how eloquent, full of energy, and constructive quiet people can be. He asks us to “replace the phone with the bell” to return to our “little moments of spaciousness.”
I have come a long way since I first left Puerto Rico in my teen years. Having spent countless hours in silence, I have replaced the word loneliness with solitude. I now understand the wonderful possibilities of connection that silence brings as I seek to live a more authentic life. I am grateful that I have found groups of people, in strong fields of energy like my sangha and Plum Village, with whom I can spend silent time in communion. Moreover, my ability to feel oneness with nature continues to grow. I am convinced that silence can be as powerful and as awe-inspiring as a thunderstorm. I respect and give attention to quiet people and the messages that they utter. I am especially grateful to Thich Nhat Hanh for how readily sound yields to silence in my world.
Some Questions to Explore:
How have your experiences with silence evolved?
Have you had a memorable experience in which sound yielded to silence?
Where do you feel communion that is not related to the spoken word?
What is your favorite way to describe your inner island or refuge?
What is your favorite way to describe silence in our sangha and in Plum Village?
Can you think of a time when you listened to your inner voice to make an important decision?