Listening to silence

What would you hear if you sat in silence?

I just started reading Thirty Days: on retreat with the exercises of St Ignatius , having finally schlepped over to the Boston Public Library’s central branch to borrow a copy. I figured I’d read it and then come up with something to say, but barely 20 pages I was so moved that I knew the reflection couldn’t wait.

My first and only silent retreat was now ten and a half years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday: the brilliance of the Maine waters in the crisp winter air, my disappointment with a spiritual director who I felt gave me no direction, the table where I played with colored pencils for hours, and the beach where I went by myself to sing to the sea, having realized that even in silence I couldn’t last long without song.

Most importantly I remember the cracking open of who I really was in the silence. After a few days of not trying to impress anyone with my wit or my intellect, I found myself being myself rather than acting like myself. I was a senior in college, wrapping up four years in close quarters with others, four years of trying to find out who I was but always seeing my reflection in the eyes of my companions.

There I was in the silence, finally, really me.

I also found consolation and peace, the repair of various little hurts and of the larger overarching pain of being an adolescent and young adult. It was a vague peace. At the time I knew that the knowledge of this peace would sustain me, even when peace felt very far away. The memory has indeed comforted me.

I still seek silence often, though sometimes I fear it because I don’t want to hear the voice that might emerge. When I first did the nineteenth annotation I was in a terrible situation, and the only way out was a road I didn’t want to take. The very first night of sitting quietly in prayer the voice told me to go down that road. So I listened, even though I’d resisted.

Once you hear, you can’t say no, which is why sometimes I stay noisy.

The last few days I have been in the Berkshires, where stars shine brighter in a darker sky and the silence has music in it. Again I’ve found myself: a person I want to be, a person I like. When I discover the realest me there is less fear, and God can speak, and I can listen.

What would you hear if you sat in silence?

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