When I am on a trail, especially a mountain trail in the Olympics, I find the silence remarkable. Silence contrasts starkly with the din of humanity that often surrounds us: the rush of cars on a freeway, the roar of jets overhead, the beat of music in our ear buds. When I suddenly find myself surrounded by peaceful silence, two things happen. First, I remark to my companion how quiet it is (ironic that I break the silence by speaking...I think it's silence's unfamiliarity that evokes this response). Once I'm past the shock of experiencing silence, I simply enjoy the sound of it as I walk amid towering conifers or ascend a rocky slope. These initial responses to silence are like inhaling before a very long sigh -- with the rest of my trip in the wilderness one long exhale of contentment, relaxation, and refreshment.
A friend once told me he has a difficult time backpacking for more than a day because when he finds himself cut off from the customary distractions of life (iPhone, email, sports scores, weather reports...), he gets extremely uncomfortable facing nothing but himself and his own thoughts. I can agree. I've been there.
Our own thoughts can be daunting, but silence can be rewarding and worth pursuing. It's one of the gifts of the wilderness that I relish most. Silence is the same every time I experience it, no matter where I am. And yet the outcome of experiencing silence varies depending on what I do with this gift. I'm reminded of a story I heard about a religion instructor at a Christian high school. This teacher decided to introduce silent meditation into one of his classes. He gave the students instructions simply to "be" during the silence: to be relaxed and awake, and open to life as it is, with nothing to do but appreciate whatever comes. Week by week he slowly increased the amount of time to a maximum of ten minutes. The student response was very revealing. One boy summarized the general feeling of the class: "It is the only time in my day when I am not expected to achieve something." In other words, the students had a chance to be a human being, rather than a "human doing." The response of several irate parents was equally revealing: "I'm not paying all that tuition for my child to sit there and do nothing," said one.
How is it that ten minutes of silence can be so special and so threatening? When we make the opportunity for silence, what can we 'hear' in those moments that lack auditory stimuli? Fearsome things? Good things? Both?
John White, in his book The Fight, offers one possible answer: "It is God who wishes to establish communication. He is more anxious to speak to us than we are to hear him. He is incredibly persistent in trying to get through."
"Hasten to him who calls you in the silences of your heart." From A Testament of Devotion by Thomas R. Kelly
