Ben and Me_ From Temperance to Humility - Cameron Gunn [25]
My home is loud, and I would have it no other way.
Sometimes, however, Silence—real, literal, no noise type of Silence—is a good thing.
Having dedicated myself to the proposition that Franklin’s intention in promoting Silence was to avoid gossip, hurtful words, and any speech that was not a benefit, I had ignored the more literal meaning of Silence. Given my natural proclivities (and housemates), the absence of noise is, to me, a mystery of biblical proportions. When my workweek was done, I decided to explore true Silence.
A judge I know books himself into a monastery twice a year. No talking at all—just him and several dozen monks contemplating. That’s a lot of Silence. I wasn’t sure I could handle that much quiet. I decided to go ask him about it. When I inquired about the experience, he seemed thrilled that I might follow his example. He told me how the monks and guests eat, work, and pray in silence. Most of your time is spent in your room, he told me, where there is no temptation to speak. It is meant to be a time of reflection.
“Could I bring a book?” I asked.
He seemed a bit taken aback. “You mean other than the Bible?” When I nodded, he continued, his tone less exuberant than it was a moment before. “I suppose. But this is meant to be a place for you to commune with God. The silence allows you to get past the daily concerns that plague us, to clear your mind, to create space for something deeper, something spiritual.”
I’m sure he wanted to say, “deeper than The Da Vinci Code.” But he was too polite to say something like that.
I was sure I couldn’t handle that kind of quiet. If the virtue was to have any real benefit for me, it had to be something easily replicated in my everyday life. I don’t often hang out at monasteries (though I once repaired the fire extinguishers at a convent, and all the nuns said to say hello to my dad—that took some explaining to my mom). In the end, I settled on some self-help Silence.
The penultimate day of the week of Silence presented the perfect opportunity to explore real Silence. Left alone at home with Kelsey and Billy, my mentally disturbed beagle, I saw my opportunity. Kelsey was tired, and I knew she would soon fall asleep, and Billy was curled up in a ball on the love seat, dreaming of whatever it is beagles dream of.
And so I sat in Silence.
Or not. I had forgotten the load of dishes in the dishwasher. The wishhh-whhirrr sound of detergent being sloshed over our lunch dishes was definitely interrupting my resolute refusal to make a noise. The wash would wait. I turned the machine off and was met with more noise . . . the dishwasher had been masking the sound of the clothes dryer a floor below. A quick trip down the stairs, a turn of a dial, and . . . the sound of our air exchanger. Now I was in trouble. I didn’t know how to turn off the air exchanger. Then Kelsey decided to help by making her happy sounds, which were delightful except that they in no way qualified as Silence. It occurred to me, as I listened to this twenty-first-century white noise (and my child), that complete Silence in the modern world is almost unattainable.
Determined to achieve as much Silence as possible, I waited until the air exchanger went silent and Kelsey had fallen asleep. Then I sat and read a book. I immediately discovered another problem in seeking Silence. Silence, the real Silence, must be more than an absence of noise. It is an absence of the things that clutter the mind—the internal noise of modern living.
Life is hectic. The simple clutter of our everyday existence crowds and confuses our waking thoughts. Even the simple, wonderful act of reading fills our heads; this is not Silence. I needed Silence. No reading, I decided.
I laid aside my book, rested comfortably on the couch, and attempted to clear my mind of all conscious thought. Calming myself, I breathed slowly and considered the peace that Silence might bring.
When I woke up, drool drying on my cheek, I was no better acquainted with the peace of Silence. I had discovered, however, the benefit of an unintended afternoon