I crave silence

When words feel somehow irrelevant

I crave silence.
Not the kind that comes with deafness,
but the kind that comes with everything.

In the past couple of years, I’ve been yearning for more silence. Silence away from the urban clutter and racket. Not the artificial quiet of noise-cancelling headphones or the soundproof walls of a recording studio, but the natural absence of unnecessary commotion. The kind of silence where you can hear leaves rustling through the branches, waves crashing on the shore, ants rushing through the blades of grass, or someone creakily sitting on the pews in an echoing church.

Noise-cancelling gear has always made me uncomfortable. It never feels natural. I’ve experienced how debilitating it is to lose hearing temporarily, whether for a few minutes or a week. That unwelcome ringing, the only thing breaking through, makes it seem even louder.

I want silence.
Not to feel overwhelmed,
but to give myself time to love.

It seems like most of the younger generation finds silence overpowering. Why else does everyone always wear wireless earphones? In the metro, at the supermarket, at the park, in their own rooms. It’s as if our generation is preparing for hearing aids, but I don’t care so much for this preparation.

I love music. I was raised with it. But like everything else, it has its place and time. I listen to music (usually without lyrics) when I work, because it helps me focus on the task rather than the ringing in my ears. I listen to music while I create, an album or a song on loop that mirrors the work I’m trying to bring to life.

A soft pastel postcard illustration I drew for a dear friend

I want silence.
Not to act mysterious,
but to learn more about what is around me.

I’m not much of a talker, though others seem to think I am. I do however have a lot of thoughts and opinions. Perhaps I’m a good chameleon, adapting quickly to my surroundings. If you don’t approach me, I’ll sit quietly. If you do, I’ll talk comfortably. But that doesn’t mean everything I say reflects my true self. Most of what comes out of my mouth exists in a space between truth and fiction. My thoughts are too tangled to be easily spoken. Silence, and what it brings, is the only thing that can help me unravel them.

I want silence.
Not to hide from the world,
but so I can witness it.

If I were to always listen to something (music, podcasts, audiobooks, or what have you) I’d stop truly witnessing my surroundings. It’s as simple as that. If I can’t hear the world, how can I truly see it? And if I can’t see what’s in front of me, how can I love it? If we don’t witness, then what do we grieve in the end? What was it all for?

Some days make it easier to practice than others, and I’m still learning. I will always be learning.

I want silence.
Not to fit in,
but to understand myself as I truly am.

What does silence mean to you? Once you strip away your first layers, what do you see?

Sometimes I don’t like the stillness, the act of unconsciously peeking behind the curtain of my mind. or rather what’s behind the curtain peeks out. Like a child clutching my leg, hiding behind my clothes. Waiting for me to angrily send it back to its shadowy room. I’m learning to say, “It’s okay, come out. Let me look at you”. Not for the whole world to see, because it’s nobody’s business, but for me to understand. To gaze upon it with forgiving eyes rather than pity.

Allowing silence into my life has changed so much. My mind is always searching for more of it. More solace from noise. More understanding of myself.

This is one of the reasons why yoga, specifically Ashtanga, holds such importance in my life. It’s the one time I’m allowed to be without my phone, the one moment I exist in tune with my breath and movement. Words become irrelevant, and everyone feels as one. Maybe this is why I’m better at listening than at talking. Perhaps it was always meant to be this way.

I crave silence