Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

silence

Silence {A series of S-words, part 3}

The air conditioner in our bedroom rattles while my husband watches an episode of “Father Brown” before he falls asleep. In the living room, the kids watch “Wheel of Fortune” shouting at the television whenever appropriate. Or not. The boy rocks in the orange recliner which has developed a squeak and between segments of the show, commercials blare their subtle fear: cancer, illness, injury.

If I turned off the electronic devices, I would still hear the cars whoosh past our house, the cicadas swell their song from the trees.

Is silence even a possibility in this noisy world?

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

—

Two months ago, I went to a writing retreat where each morning we had the option of spending 15 minutes in silence/guided meditation. I gave it a try because why not? The first day we sat in folding chairs in a circle. Our leader invited us to adopt a relaxed posture–shoulders back, spine straight, arms resting lightly on our legs/knees. We breathed and we listened to a reading of a short poem a couple of times through. Then, we participated in silence for 15 full minutes.

I thought it would be impossible. I thought I would need to fidget, that my body would start to ache, that my mind would wander. I thought it would be difficult to tune out the other sounds, but I found myself undisturbed, even when I knew people were walking into the space we occupied.

When our leader rang a bell at the end of 15 minutes, I could hardly believe it was over already. And I felt such peace in my soul.

The next morning, I looked forward to our time in silence as much as anything else. We moved to a different location, inside a house, but the experience was similar. And I left the entire retreat feeling that the time spent in silence and not doing was as important as the work I do actually writing.

—

Since then, I have not had a smidgen of silence. Nor have I sought it.

The kids run in and out of the house all day, and when they are quiet for a few moments, I choose a podcast or music to help me through my chores.

When the kids were younger, I used to crave silence. I would never turn on music when the house was empty because I needed to hear myself think. This led someone to remark that I didn’t like music, which wasn’t true at all. I just couldn’t handle more noise when I had the choice.

Now, though, it seems that even when the house is empty, I am choosing noise because I can control it. I listen to podcasts or let a Netflix show run. Another friend says she needs complete quiet in her house to write and I am the opposite. I would rather be in a crowded coffee shop where I am forced to focus on the work in front of me. In my house there are too many distractions, and if it’s quiet, I hear every.little.thing.

Better to have the noise I want.

—

The van was silent and I was not alone.

The kids sat in their usual seats while our new friend sat in the passenger seat as I drove us through the city. I had driven her to her appointments several times before this, and though I could not speak her language nor she mine, I felt pressure to fill the silence.

On our first meeting, I blurted out all the Spanish words I could think of. “Hola!” “Ninos?” “Siete y nueve.” It was as awkward as it sounds. I can’t use Google Translate when I’m driving.

I quit trying to fill the silence with words after the first few car rides, opting instead to just be present. I heard every sigh as she coped with the pain in her body, and I interpreted every facial expression inadequately. But I figured the kids would try to talk to her.

I was wrong. In the car that first time for them, they were silent. Our friend would turn and smile at them and talk about her grandson still in Cuba. When we were free of the car, then the kids, face-to-face, did their best to communicate although “no comprende” was a phrase we heard often.

The silent presence was uncomfortable. I felt like I should be saying something. Anything. And I hate making small talk. The idea of just sitting with a person without exchanging even the most basic of conversation is so unfamiliar in our culture. If we’re not talking to someone, we’re listening to something so we don’t have to talk to anyone, but do we dare spend time with ourselves?

What might we learn about ourselves and others if we stopped filling the silence and instead listened to it?

—

Noise distracts us.

If we have to focus on the sound waves, then we don’t have to focus on the inner workings of our heart. If we can’t hear the inner monologue then maybe we don’t feel so bad about ourselves. If we fill the void, we don’t have to think. Period.

We recently spent time with our deaf niece (she is so much more than this). She has an implant to help her hear, but my sister-in-law talks about how if she had to do it over, she might not have agreed to that. The implant magnifies every single sound, the background noise as well as the speaking. I remember my grandfather sometimes turning off his hearing aid because he couldn’t hear what he wanted to hear.

I can’t imagine choosing not to hear, but one of my favorite images of my niece from her time here was when she lay on a blanket in the park, feeling the music as it left the stage. She was transfixed. So was I.

Some part of me thinks she was the one truly hearing the music.

—

The house is quiet now. It will only stay that way for a few hours, unless the mouse we can’t catch decides on another kitchen caper tonight. All too soon, the sleeping house will awaken and fill with the sounds of breakfast dishes and coffee brewing and children either laughing or fighting or both. We will fill our day with words until I bellow in frustration, “No. More. Talking.”

I might get a moment of silence before being asked a question or told a story.

It might last a little longer.

Silence might elude me, but I will not stop seeking it.

Nothing and Everything {Reflections on a Retreat}

I didn’t know I needed the silence until I had it, and then it totally freaked me out.

I didn’t know I could do less and still feel like I’d accomplished something.

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

I spent the weekend at a writing retreat. On a farm. Nestled in the mountains of Virginia. Months ago, my mom graciously offered to pay my way to the retreat AND take my kids so that I could go. Best birthday present ever. As the weeks passed I was varying degrees of nervous and anxious and excited.

Writing is such a solitary endeavor, yet some of my closest friends I’ve met through writing. I knew this would be a fun weekend of hanging out with other weirdos writer types, and I hoped it would be as relaxing as it sounded. I just wasn’t prepared for the weekend to live up to my greatest expectations. (Spoilers: It did.)

The views were spectacular from every side. Whether you walked the grounds or sat in the barn, the natural world screamed for attention. And if the trees and mountains didn’t catch your attention, then the animals were sure to steal the spotlight.

I’m not much of a dog person, but I think I could become a Basset Hound person. This is Mosey, and he was the official welcoming committee for every person who arrived. Also, he might sit low to the ground, but that neck and nose stretch a good distance. I was smitten with this pooch from the moment we pulled into the field where we parked.

With a welcome like this, the tone was clear: Be here. Enjoy. Relax.

A Friday-night-to-Sunday-afternoon schedule could have been packed full of information. Instead, it was open to the imagination. With a free hour before lunch on Saturday, I found myself unsure of what to do. I am used to packing my days with tasks to be completed, places to be, but at 11 a.m. on a Saturday in the mountains of Virginia, I had nowhere to go, nothing I had to do, no one who needed me. I pulled a camp chair between two trees offering shade and there, overlooking the mountainous terrain, I read a book. (And not one single person thought that was strange.)

If I had to sum up the weekend with a word, it would be “relief.”

The retreat opened with the acknowledgement that we did not have to produce a single thing while we were there, the encouragement that this weekend was meant to refresh us, not add pressure.

By Saturday late afternoon, this was starting to bother me. It was more than half over, and we’d be going home the next day, and I had yet to feel that “high” that sometimes accompanies conferences and special events. If anything, I was feeling more mellow than I ever had in my life. Was I doing it wrong?

I often leave writing conferences or one-day events feeling excited and pumped up about getting out there and doing my best writing work. But I’m also generally overwhelmed by all the information and mentally exhausted. When I left this retreat, I felt rejuvenated and fulfilled. Tired, but not exhausted. Like something deep inside had shifted and I might not see the ripples of change for a few days.

In college, people used to say this to me, and about me: Still waters run deep. I was quiet. I didn’t say much. But when I did, it was usually meaningful and thoughtful. I believed this about myself, mostly, but lately, for many years, I’ve felt more like Niagara Falls on the inside. Like my thoughts and feelings and worries are just spilling over a steep drop and churning on the bottom. Like I’m trying to grab a clear thought before it cascades out of reach.

One of my favorite things we did at the retreat was spend 15 minutes in silence. It was some of the hardest work I’ve done. My body wanted to resist and fidget and my thoughts wanted to swirl and overwhelm, but at the suggestion of the woman leading the silence, I kept returning to a word or a phrase that would anchor me in the still waters. When she rang the bell signaling the end of the 15 minutes, I couldn’t believe it was over. I had a similar experience the next day. Fifteen minutes doesn’t sound like much time to do anything but sitting in silence that long sounds impossible.

Until you do it.

When I think about the amount of time I spent thinking about or talking about my writing this weekend, it doesn’t feel like that’s what the retreat was about. I mean, we talked about writing and we learned some new techniques and we helped each other with something we’d written, but the space is what I remember most. The silence is my biggest takeaway.

The silence, I realized, is as important to my writing as the actual words.

I typically want to fill my life with words because that is how I process and I think that to be a successful (whatever that means) writer, I have to always be cranking out words on a page. I do need to put words on pages, but I need the silence, too. I wasn’t doing it wrong at the retreat, but maybe I’ve been doing it wrong all the other times.

This is all to say that for one glorious weekend, I was invited to slow my frantic pace. To be rather than to do. I was given grace to set the writing goal and practice that works for me. No one told anyone else how to do it right. No one promised measurable growth in five easy steps.

It was easily one of the highlights of my writing life.

The people I met this week, they are treasures.

The three Lisas. Three Lisas are better than one!

If you are a writer or a creator and you have or can find the means to make it to Virginia in June, I encourage you to consider the retreat at God’s Whisper Farm. Dates have been set for next year: June 22-24. More information will be available soon. (And if you’re anywhere within hearing distance of my voice or my words, this won’t be the last time I talk about it!)