“Try to imagine a life without timekeeping. You probably can’t. You know the month, the year, the day of the week. There is a clock on your wall or the dashboard of your car. You have a schedule, a calendar, a time for dinner or a movie. Yet all around you, timekeeping is ignored. Birds are not late. A dog does not check its watch. Deer do not fret over passing birthdays. an alone measures time. Man alone chimes the hour. And, because of this, man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures. A fear of time running out.”
In our busy-obsessed, zero days off-esque world, how often do we ever truly unplug and enjoy silence?
We always have simulation whether it be from having our phone in our hands, aimlessly scrolling social media, or headphones in our ears playing music, a podcast, or an audiobook. We're afraid of the silence. In silence, all we're left with is our thoughts: our past regrets, wish-we-would-have's, wish-we-could-have's and the dreams we will accomplish when all the stars align and all circumstances are in our favor, and insecurities. At the end of the day, the company of our own thoughts is the last thing we want to keep. It's scary and unpleasant, so we opt for distraction.
My friend Anne did a post where she was challenged to sit with her thoughts in a familiar space for a period of time. I wanted to try it, too.
I went to a hiking trail near my house, initially with headphones in playing calming music. I felt relaxed, but I remembered her post and thought When was the last time I was comfortable with silence? I came here to reconnect with myself, but was I really connecting at all?
I put my phone in my pocket and headphones out of my ears, and immediately noticed a difference.
In between the sounds of geckos big and small scurrying across the leaves, I heard the crunching of the leaves under my sneakers, I felt my footprint I left behind in the dirt.
I heard the various birds chirping and wondered what breed they might be. I saw two cardinals in the trees.
I heard a fish jump up and out of the creek, and back in again.
I saw two bunnies run from the cover of one bush, to another on the opposite side of the trail.
I spot a red leaf among the hundreds of brown and green, signaling there may be fall in Florida after all. It reminds me of this time last year, I was in New York on a trail by my house doing a similar exercise. I sipped my coffee as I walked down the dirt path, soaking in the cool mountain air just after sunrise. I enjoyed the silence then, as I did now, a silence that seemingly only comes before the rest of the world wakes up, one much different and calm from the one experienced after the world has returned to bed.
I notice an old splintery bench among the brush, and wonder who placed it there and when, if they commissioned help from a family member in making it, a bonding experience of sorts, a grandpa teaching his grandson that true hard work can only be done with your hands.
I think of the group of picnic benches on the trail back home, positioned near a charcoal grill. A plaque reads a local girl scout troop built them and placed them their for the community to enjoy.
I wonder if they earned badges for their hard work. I wonder if they considered that badge would mean more than a badge to them at all, a patch to fill their vest. I wonder if they thought of the benches of more than a bench, a silly project to check off their list. A requirement.
I remember sitting on the bench at six years old, overlooking the creek where my dad taught me how to skip rocks, and which rocks would get the most amount of skips. It's the flat rocks. It's still a skill I never mastered. I was 24 when I came back and the benches are still there, weathered now, but still sturdy. The plaque remains clear, that the troop brought them there.
I think of them now, and how they may have left the comfort of our small upstate town, opting for a big city with hustle and bustle, forgetting the task altogether and how much they appreciated the silence.
I continue my walk, and notice a squirrel, frozen in the trees, snacking on an acorn. He reminds me of Buddha, and how I have to get home to feed him dinner. I can hear the echos of his meows in my head. I'm late and he's pissed.
There's beauty in silence, though sometimes it can seem loud.
The longer the silence, the clearer it becomes.
Oh how there's beauty in silence, and how often and easy we forget.
Thank you for the reminder.
