Saving the Silence that Nourishes Our Souls

Half a lifetime ago when I was twenty-six years old, I set out to hike across some of the wildest territory in the lower 48 – the Absaroka Mountains and the southeast corner of Yellowstone National Park - accompanied only by a borrowed German Short-haired Pointer named Sadie.

My marriage had recently shattered, and in short order, I had left a promising career in field ecology and moved away from the landscape I loved. My life was a mess. So I ran away. I packed up Sadie and returned on foot to the mountains I knew intimately in search of solitude and the balm of silence.

When I am stuck and cannot extricate myself from my problems, I head for wild country, for someplace removed from the noise and busyness of humanity. Seekers of all kinds have retreated to the silence of the wild, from the solitary treks of the Christian Desert Fathers to Native American vision quests, Aborigine “walkabouts”, Indian mystics in Himalayan caves, and rustic church camps.

“True silence. . .” wrote Quaker William Penn, “is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.” Silence is where we go to meet our inner selves without distraction, where we tune out the trivial and focus on what is at the core of our lives.

It’s not that nature is actually silent. On the contrary, the wild world is as full of sound as it is of life.

But the sounds of the wild – the whooshing of wind in evergreen boughs, the haunting calls of sandhill cranes, the rasp of a grasshopper’s jaws, the click as a seed pod splits open – may enhance introspection and meditation, perhaps because they sing the rhythms and cadences of life living itself. The “silence” of the wild is more like restful quiet, a soothing absence of the adrenaline-pumping din generated by humanity’s cellular phones, video games, televisions, computers, dishwashers, car engines, airplanes, jackhammers.

Contemplative silence is an undervalued resource, a rarity in landscapes dominated by humans. Incessant noise overwhelms mind and spirit, drowning the small, still voice of our own inner wisdom: in the constant barrage, it is no wonder that we cannot hear ourselves think.

When I was 26 and in turmoil, I needed that kind of silence. So I set off into the wilderness, laden by a towering backpack stuffed with every conceivable necessity and accompanied by Sadie. Eight days and 110 miles later, Sadie and I emerged from our trek dusty and thinner, having forded waist-deep streams, traversed the Continental Divide, and survived getting much too close to a grizzly bear.

The long days hiking with only Sadie for company forced me to face my fears and taught me that no matter where life took me, my survival depended on heeding my inner voice: those utterances of intuition and insight saved Sadie and I more than once.

In the twenty-some years since that trip - through marriage and moves and step-motherhood, through writing and teaching and the unpredictable progress of life - I’ve often imagined returning. My imaginations, however, have stayed just that. It’s not only being unable to find the time: the truth is I no longer have the physical capacity to make the hike.

When I need the tranquility of the wild nowadays, I retreat to a sunny spot atop a nearby urban stream bank where I can bask in the fragrant clump of sagebrush my husband and I planted, soothed by the murmur of the creek. I miss the solitary days I once spent in wilder places, but I take heart knowing that others can trek to those landscapes and hear the stirrings of their souls.

As our homes and neighborhoods grow noisier, we need sanctuaries of contemplative silence within easy reach, easily accessible places where we can retreat and listen to the stillness without multi-day, hundred- mile treks. We need wildness close to home.

Whether actual wilderness areas or simply bits of urban space protected from despoilment and din, these reservoirs of wildness and peace preserve something increasingly rare in today’s world: the kind of silence that nourishes our hearts and souls.

Susan J. Tweit
http://communityoftheland.blogspot.com
http://susanjtweit.com

Comments

[Susan Albert]

Thank you, Susan, for reminding us how truly and deeply we need the silence of the wild (whether it is the tiny wildnesses of our gardens or the vast wilderness of the desert.

"Who tells a finer tale than any of us? Silence does."--Isak Dineson

[Paula S. Yost]

Blessed silence... today I hear it in your writing and in the rain that continues to block out all other sounds outside my window. Thank you for taking me to drier country at least for a moment.

[Marti Johnson (aka Sock Queen)]

Remember the song "The Sounds of Silence"? I envy those of you able to find this place of absolute silence {from everyday noise} and the ability to hear only the sounds of nature instead. From my reasonably quiet home, I still hear the sounds of the heavy traffic on the freeway going past constantly, almost the sound of 'white noise', and think how wonderful it would be to listen only to nature instead. Enjoy your wilderness sounds; too many of us never have that opportunity.

[Dani Greer]

Yes, I moved to the country for some peace and quiet, only to find myself surrounded by highway noise, heavy equipment, and man's "pest" friend from the ubiquitous county puppy mills. Who would have guessed country living could be so stressful? I thought I was a true oddball until I discovered the Right to Quiet Society a few years ago. They have some good "noiseletters" here:

http://www.quiet.org/newsl.htm

Lots of good tips and support for those who value stillness... inside and out.

[Hope Martin]

Sometimes its just turning off the tv! That moment of quiet is like a physical thing! Leaving a store with all the forced music and tv's all playing so loud, just getting into the car and closing the door, silence!
My best favorite is waking up so early, its a bit misty, and so still, and then, hearing the birds waking up!

[Susan J Tweit]

Thanks for the comments - it's interesting how we only notice the importance of stillness and quiet when we don't have them. For those interested in another resource on noise as pollution, check out the work of the Noise Pollution Clearinghouse (http://www.nonoise.org/). They do research and write sample ordinances on controlling noise, and they offer help dealing with unwanted noise in your neighborhood or community. I think we have the right to quiet, but it's not a right we assert very often or effectively.
Quiet blessings! Susan
http://communityoftheland.blogspot.com
http://susanjtweit.com

[Laura]

Beautifully said, and so true. Have you considered publishing this piece? It would fit well in an environmental or hiker's magazine (Orion, Backpacker, etc.).

[Susan J Tweit]

Hi, Laura,

Thanks for the comment. A slightly different version of it came out in the Denver Post as an op-ed a copule of years ago. I should have said that at the end of the post, but it was late and I forgot to add that!

Susan
http://communityoftheland.blogspot.com
http://susanjtweit.com

[Linda Peterson]

Love your piece, Susan. I am never so aware of the silence-noise dichotomy as I am in the winter here in the Midwest when most of the birds leave or lie low most of the time. Gone, too, is wind in the leaves. I come close to weeping when I hear the first cardinal yawp out his territoral alert; if we're lucky that can be in mid-February. It is the first signal of hope in a frozen world. What terrifies me to death is the current news that our songbirds are in a drastically sharper decline in numbers than previously thought. How awful to think that my first sign of "hope" might be the neighbor's gas mower!

[Linda Mandeville]

Loved your thoughts Susan. That is exactly why we go high up in the Colorado Rockies camping every summer. There are lots of hikes that put me "on top of the world". Really! It is where I find peace. There are no cell phones and no laptops. My husband and I rarely pass anyone on the trails. We sometimes talk, but we don't need to. We have no idea what is going on in the world and for 1 week don't feel a need to know. We just got back from our week in the mountains. I wish there was a way to bring it home, but instead I always leave a part of myself there.