“In silence, I find sobriety;
In quiet, there is a clarity;
In stillness, I find simplicity;
It’s there I find your love, your hope, your peace.”
One of my favorite meditative songs is “Sobriety”, a recording done by Brother Isaiah on the album “Shade 2”. Brother Isaiah belongs to the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal, a monastic group in NYC that, among other things, records simple acoustic tracks for meditative prayer and adoration. (As an aside, all of the proceeds from their music fund the various service missions they run for the vulnerable populations in New York City. I’d definitely recommend checking out literally anything they do.)
Lately, my life has been a busy, chaotic mess, so I’ve been aching for the sobriety mentioned in this song. My desire for clarity, peace, and simplicity shouts out to me; I feel like my interior life is a cacophony of endless to-dos, constant interruption, and heaps of laundry and dishes, finished with a flourishing sforzando of guilt. I crave the sighing relief of silence, stillness, and calm.
Today, (as on most days) my students were having none of it. As a music teacher, I find my classroom to be a haven for noise and activity. I like to call it “productive noise”. It’s usually the sound of kids discovering how to turn ideas into music, but today’s noise seemed superfluous. It was noise for the sake of noise. After waiting for several minutes for the jittery hum of tapping and voices to stop, I asked my class (only half jokingly) if they were afraid of silence. To my surprise, one student responded with, “Yes. Silence is scary. Especially at home. I always need sounds, like the TV or loud music, otherwise it’s too quiet and I don’t like it.” I think, sadly, a lot of us can relate to those words, especially in this age of instantly available light, sound, and entertainment. When our brains are used to being off-kilter, distracted, and over-stimulated, silence can act as an instrument of pain instead of a balm for the soul. This can be especially true for anyone who has experienced trauma. I began to think back to when my life was the most chaotic. I still craved peace and quiet, but I didn’t quite know what to do with myself on the rare occasion that I got it. My anxiety would rocket through the roof and I’d either have to pick up my phone and distract myself or engage in some kind of busywork, like laundry or cleaning. My brain had become so used to the noise, that I couldn’t bear to sit in the silence that my heart so desperately needed. It was too painful and frightening.
What is it about silence that terrifies us? What (or who) are we hiding from? Why are distractions and noise preferred to our own beating hearts and measured breathing? What demons live inside us that are just too painful to face? We avoid silence like a pre-teen avoids the shower; yet, some of the most valuable experiences in life come from silence. Music, an intentional combination of balanced sound and silence, makes us feel things we could never express in words. A night full of stars, unhindered by the noise of traffic and light pollution, connects us deeply with our own smallness in the expanse of a universe too great for us to comprehend. The peaceful breathing of a child allows her mother to contemplate the astounding fragility and beauty of the human condition through the lens of unfathomable love. The stunning quiet of adoration and prayer opens our hearts to hear the whisper of a God who cherishes our very existence.
It has taken me years to learn to sit in the classroom of silence. So tonight, as my children sleep, I’m grateful that I can finally be still, calm, and at peace. It’s a grace and a gift that I admit I still haven’t mastered. It takes time, discomfort, and courage to find the beauty in the quiet. I’m so thankful that finally, at least on most days, in silence I find not fear, but sobriety.
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