Silence is a Superpower
Do you let yourself enjoy it?
Perhaps you know the power of silence. I didn’t. Not ‘til I was hip-deep in nightmare.
(By silence, I’m speaking of internal quiet. Thoughts settle under a blanket of stillness and silence swallows you whole.)
It was months after Michael died before I saw how enjoyable silence could be. And how I could meet with him there.
My husband knew better. He showed me what silence could do. As he went about dying, he taught me to live.
Such masterful teaching — my angel, my love — sweet Michael, he trained me so well.
It started a couple of days into our month in the hospital. We were pretty clear then — he was on his way Home. My work was simple and dire need compelled me. Stay joyful. Live in the now.
There we were, at 4 am, I’d slipped, tipped the pee-pot at the very last minute, eyes bleared by sudden-stopped sleep. The bed was wet. Changing it — a complex manoeuvre. Poor Michael would go through the mill. Again. My fault. It hurt him to move.
Tears came despite best efforts to curb them.
Medication due at 6, then into the day… Facing a body in shutdown, now exhausted before we begin…
The grief of it — too great to bear.
I made to go get fresh bedding.
Michael took my hand. Made me sit on the side of the bed.
“Stop,” he said, “Stop.
“Breathe.”
But what about sleep? I need to get the bed changed…My stress-battered brain went to whimper. How will we get through the day?
Michael insisted. We sat, side by side.
Sweet Michael. My angel. My love.
To begin with, it made not a ha’p’orth of difference.
Tears fell. Brain burned. Chest aching with anguish.
Michael was unrelenting. Unmoving. So still.
He kept me there — still and unmoving — ‘til silence seeped into my soul.
A long, long time later, (only a few minutes, in fact) when the silence had full cleared me out, my husband smiled like a satisfied child and said,
“Look. Beautiful. Beautiful!”
Opening out in front of us, a sky of soft lilac and blue. Summer trees in silhouette waved us into the dawn and a blackbird’s trilling — pure joy. We sat, hearts full, brimming over.
I’ll treasure that 4 am bed-wetting daybreak from now ‘til the end of all time. I saw it then as a beautiful moment. I’d felt pain turned into joy.
Now, months down the line, I see it for the power it signalled: it unleashed the silence in me. I didn’t quite grasp it back then, but boy is it helping me now.
Stumbling towards silence — A toddler’s tale
Picture a toddler, stumbling to walk, prone to frustration and tears. Reaching for sofa tops, watching her siblings; she’s sure she’s getting it wrong.
That was me on my way to the silence. For decades I stumbled around. Meditation, mindfulness, however you approach it, the practice eluded my grasp.
I knew meditation was good for me. I mean, the evidence is everywhere now…
“Meditation practices are shown to influence many psychological processes that can influence an individual’s psychological response and relationship with stressors, including self-compassion, rumination, exposure, metacognition and attention. Such practices influence physiological markers of stress reactivity, including changes in blood pressure, heart rate, cortisol or cytokine levels, in diverse populations of adults.” — Michaela C. Pascoe, Michael de Manincor et al, Science Direct, 2021
I adopted the practice repeatedly for years. I recommended it to clients — ‘…a wedge between your story and you…’ I sought advice from those practised and passionate… but I just couldn’t carry it through.
“So important to keep your back straight, don’t you know?”
I paid out for Headspace and The Tapping Solution Apps — both very good in their way.
I read Gilbert’s account in “Eat, Pray, Love,” with an all-consuming envy…
I tried breath-counting, candle-gazing, Reiki and more.
I tried labelling thoughts and letting them pass. Not judging the outcomes, applauding the effort... “It’s not about feelings,” I heard the wise say, “it’s about discipline and deciding to do it.”
Oh dear. More evidence of the lazy, good-for-nothing, precious princess I was worried that I had become…
I couldn’t get away from my need to feel good. That sounds dreadful doesn’t it? No grit. No focus. No spine.
70 hours a week was spent at the time in a job that drained me completely. I had no willpower left to make myself follow a practice that didn’t feel that good, to be honest.
The cycle of self-condemnation rolled on...
“But if you’d only keep it up, you’d find your way to freeing yourself from the 70 hour working week you despise…”
Yup, I knew the advice was correct…
I wanted it but…
I couldn’t sustain it.
Some of the tastier breadcrumbs…
There were some tastier breadcrumbs on the trail… delicious Hugh Jackman for one! What a glorious human being! Indulging myself in his Instagram feed brought me “10% Happier”, a Dan Harris delight. I found it so human. It helped me. A lot.
The lovely Cheidu Hing’s online course was kind and easy to follow. She explained why the out-breath is the simplest relaxant… (It activates the parasympathetic nervous system. Prolong it, enjoy it, and your body finds ease.)
Penny Croal — beautiful, compassionate, trauma-specialist Penny — gave me permission to stop berating myself. “Meditation isn’t always accessible or even advisable,” she’d said, “when you’re working through trauma from childhood.”
I sat with followers of Sant Mat for a while. Couldn’t imagine 180 minutes’ meditation daily… Oh boy!
Abraham teachings — I love them so dearly — are peppered with encouragement to practice. I bought their books, their CDs, watched them on YouTube, but you can’t make the bloody horse drink…
A school in Ormskirk impressed me most deeply, on a visit, many years ago. Twice daily their whole function stops as they meditate, children and staff altogether. What a foundation for young ones to foster! Another crumb closer to tipping point…
So what was the tipping point — and how might you reach it?
If you’re with me perhaps you are crumb-gathering too. Here is what tipped it for me. (The good news about tipping points — they can be nurtured. Whilst crisis was my crucible, it needn’t be yours. The insights are yours for the claiming.)
Of course it was Michael, my husband — his dying — but he simply pointed the way. Taking ten minutes of a morning to ‘meditate’, (whatever that meant to me then) felt needed as I nursed him for three months at home.
Michael taught me in hospital — he stopped me whenever I was tense. It was a make-myself-do-this-because-he-won’t-let-go-of-my-hand-’til-I-do response, but it sure did the trick every time.
When we got home, it was down to me. Michael was there, darling man, but he couldn’t take the lead any more. I didn’t know what I was doing really, but a pause to release focus from reading his mind became essential to meeting his needs.
An extreme situation pushed me into this tipping point, but the learning was so simple in the end.
After Michael died, I continued the practice. Routine was a sofa-top in a world inside out. It still didn’t feel that great, but heck, nothing much did for a while.
I wrestled on with my instinct. Why didn’t it bring more relief?
Here’s the nugget…
Looking back, it’s so obvious: hindsight’s a smart-ass!
From making myself meditate to longing to practice. It happened in one fell swoop. Like all tipping points, it felt sudden, quantum, but the ground work was done long before.
The final piece, the tipping piece teacher, was brought by a friend. “Try him,” she’d said as she told me his name… “It’s not a feeling you’re after, it’s locating your core.” I wasn’t convinced.
But strangely enough, the name of the teacher was based on my nickname of old. A breadcrumb, I decided as I googled the name…
I loved the meditation completely. Not the teacher, per se. But the 20 minute clip I watched, for me, was the final reveal.
All those years I’d been trying to meditate had all been a ‘moving away’.
Push thoughts away. Avoid mind chatter. Escape from physical reality.
When thoughts arise, let them go.
Out damn spot — I beg you! Seeing thoughts as clouds obscuring the sky, my focus was always on clearing the grey, not diving into the blue…
Mooji’s simple guidance turned all that on its head. Here’s how he did it.
He talked me into my silence. Not away from my noise.
He brought me into the stillness, not away from e-motion.
No watching the breath or listening for sound, no function or fixing of focus.
That’s all it took.
Now I slip into silence, like a dip in a warm midnight sea. Many times and oft’ I go. Whenever I can, in fact.
I’m glad when the traffic is sluggish and slow. I delight to be waiting in line. Back I go to the silence inside me. To the loveliest stillness I know.
Stillness.
Silence.
Home for my soul.
At last.
Silence is a place inside us
My friend was right. I was after locating my core. What I hadn’t realised was that it is a physical, tangible, accessible experience. It’s not an emotion, it’s a place in my body* where I come to a gentle full stop.
I’ve always loved stopping. A perennial sea-gazer, me. I’ve sat for long moments in cool, empty churches; I’ve lived for the end of the day. Time to let go of the need to be doing. Time to let myself be.
In this one, simple teaching, came the piece I’ve been missing. Perhaps it’s the piece for you, too.
Sink into stillness. Slip into silence. It’s the ultimate, easy way Home.
Who knew?!
*(The lower dantian, as it happens.)