“Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything.”
–Gordon Hempton (b. 1952), acoustic ecologist and advocate for the power of natural silence.
My Mother told the world, especially anyone who would listen, that I was born smiling. I can just hear her now–well, obviously I can’t, and certainly I don’t remember it from when I was a baby, but you know what I mean:
“Oh, look. Mama’s Little Mr. Sunshine is lighting up the Coal Camp already.”
Her regular reinforcement, of course, kept me smiling, smiling, and smiling. I never stopped. I guess I don’t know how, even though people are always wondering what no-good nonsense I’m up to or what I know that they wish they did.
What my Mother didn’t tell folks is that I was born talking. All right. Fine. Have it your way. Maybe I wasn’t born talking out loud. But I am certain that I was born talking quietly to myself. And when the time came–and I am fairly certain that it came precociously sooner rather than belatedly later–and I heard words roll off my tongue like orchestral notes at the New York Philharmonic, I vowed to keep right on talking, talking, and talking. I never stopped. I guess I don’t know how, even though people sometimes give me looks that seem to say:
“Shut up. Won’t you please shut up. You’re exhaustive and exhausting.”
Like I said, sometimes they give me that look, but luckily, they never come right and say so. If they do, I don’t hear them. I guess people need to learn to speak up, especially if they expect to be heard while I’m talking.
I guess you might say that I’m one of those extroverts who make it a challenge for people who value quiet to be around. Of course, I’m just guessing. But every now and then, I seem to catch a glimpse of someone giving me a look that seems to be a plea for silence. But I don’t know. Looks are just looks. And the more that I think about it, I don’t think any of those people who suffer my loquaciousness in silence–even the many who have suffered sufficiently to be worthy of sainthood–have ever come right out and asked me to be quiet.
Recently, though, I might have been closer than close to that “Please-be-quiet” threshold. But then again, I might not have been. Who knows? Maybe. I’m not really sure. I’m just guessing.
If I really was close to crossing that threshold, Gary was polite enough and gentlemanly enough not to say anything. I’m not talking about my neighbor, Gary. I’m talking about my Gary from Tennessee. It’s not that he’s the quiet type. Actually, he’s quite the talker, and when he gets going, I’ll swear that he could talk out the entire book of Genesis without leaving out any of the beseeches and begats. Of course, he doesn’t talk in Old Testamentese like that, but when he talks, what he says is rich and robust and layered with details known to Adam and Eve and all of their descendants since the Garden of Eden, including me.
At the same time, I know fully well that Gary appreciates quiet. So far, though, that has not stopped me from talking. When he’s here and he’s doing his thing and I’m doing my thing, little dramas might unfold thusly:
Gary: Weeding. Not looking up. Not saying a word.
Brent: “Just ignore me. I’m just going to the compost heap. What you’re doing looks great. What do you think?”
Or, later in the day or perhaps earlier in the morning.
Gary: Reading on the deck. Looking right at his book. Not saying a word.
Brent: “Isn’t this quiet great? So peaceful. So relaxing. The only sound you can hear is the quiet song of a bird singing from time to time. Oh. Listen. Hear that one? Robin? Cardinal? OMG! Now listen. It’s the crow that lives in the pine tree midway up the mountain. See? I can just barely see it. Can you?”
I don’t think my chatter bothered Gary. It must not have. If it had, he would have said something. But he didn’t say anything. Not one word.
Still, I imagine that when he got in his Mazda, drove down the rutted mountain road, and headed back to Tennessee, he sighed a sigh of relief, verily saying aloud to himself:
“Peace. Quiet. Thank God.”
I’m sure, though, that it was a short sigh because it didn’t take too long before he sent me a text message. Or did I send one to him?
Who sent what to whom and when doesn’t really matter, does it? Either way, texting is talking. Right?
I think so, and the message–whether coming in from Gary or going out from me–found me sitting on my deck, listening to the birds, and thinking to myself:
“How incredibly quiet. I can’t believe how peacefully quiet it is, sitting here, me, myself, sipping on my coffee. Sipping. Sipping. Sipping.”
In that nanosecond, Kay Ryan’s “Shark’s Teeth” talked its poetic way into my quiet:
Everything contains some
silence. Noise gets
its zest from the
small shark’s-tooth
shaped fragments
of rest angled
in it. An hour
of city holds maybe
a minute of these
remnants of a time
when silence reigned,
compact and dangerous
as a shark. Sometimes
a bit of a tail
or fin can still
be sensed in parks.
And I sat there, sipping my coffee, cup held high in mid-air—my morning salutation to quiet, my morning celebration of quiet, my morning realization that much of life is framed by quiet.
In art, it’s the white that lets the red pop. The space the eye travels through to find what matters. The breath between brushstrokes. Without it, everything would shout. And nothing would be seen.
In music, it’s the rest that gives the chord its ache. The pause before the resolution. The silence that says, wait. And because you waited, you feel more.
And in me?
Despite the smile.
Despite the gab.
Even I need the quiet that I so often deny others.
Not just to appreciate it—
but to let it hold me,
steady me,
remind me
that I belong to the silence, too.
The kind that doesn’t ask for attention.
The kind that lets the world be.
The kind that lets me be, too.
A crow calling far off.
A weed pulled in rhythm.
A breath drawn but not spoken over.
A book opened without comment.
Gary nearby, not needing to say a word.
And I? Nearby as well. Listening.
Savoring quiet in silence.
The Wired Researcher 