Silence

Our retreats are held in silence so it may be good to say what is meant by silence.

During the seven days of a retreat we do not talk to each other except during meetings that take place about once a day. When there is some kind of emergency in which one urgently needs to say something to someone, people are asked to do so where other people do not see or hear it, or they may use paper and pencil to communicate.

You may wonder: "What's wrong with saying a few words here and there, particularly during work periods? It's so much simpler than writing notes, and need not be a distraction if it is done quietly." I am not saying it is wrongto talk. We simply agree not to talk during retreats and to see what happens. One may find out that communication is possible without any spoken words—that a much deeper kind of nonverbal communion with the people and all the natural things around us takes place when our habitual verbal expressions and exchanges do not envelop us. Energy gathers naturally when we do not engage in any talking.

Most of our waking hours are spent in talk—so much of it unnecessary and often harmful. While we talk there is rarely any listening space—it is arduous to talk and listen at the same time. But when the impulse to verbally react and speak out about everything that comes to mind slowly abates, our mental, psychological, and physical reactions come more clearly into awareness.

Outward silence helps reveal the inner noise that goes undetected when we talk and talk.

Can the breathing, the attending, take place in the midst of inner noise? If, at the moment of noticing the constant inner chatter, we immediately think: "I must stop it in order to attain deep silence," these very thoughts are the continuation of the chatter. To say to oneself, "I can do it" or "I can't do it, it's impossible" is more of the same.

Can the inner noise be entirely left alone while attending? When the changing states of body-mind are simply left to themselves without any choice or judgment—left unreacted to by a controlling or repressive will—a new quietness emerges by itself.

I do not mean adopting or imitating some prescribed behavior patterns of the "attentive, alert, quiet, Zen person." Hearing Toni talk about moving and working in silence, one quickly establishes an image about this in the mind and then tries to live up to it. Related ideas about being liked and approved of for this kind of behavior add to its artificiality. This is not attention. It is role-playing, which conditions the body and mind. Attention means letting all the noise of one's habitually inattentive, image-ridden ways come into full awareness.

When one is inattentive while opening or closing a door, that is, absorbed in thoughts about being someone special or being someplace else, noise inevitably accompanies the thoughts. Is it possible to be right there with the whole situation, the doorknob in the hand, the feel of it, turning it carefully, not knowing in advance how the whole mechanism really works? This kind of interested attention does not create extra noise. It is not bent upon eliminating sounds. Listening sensitively and caringly to all the sounds we make brings stillness in its wake. One can see this for oneself. The extra noise we just made came out of inattention—having been somewhere else in our thoughts. Choiceless awareness, sensitivity, and stillness go hand in hand—they arise mutually and do not condition the body-mind. Clarity of awareness is freedom from listening.

Listening to the sounds issuing from one's footsteps, from sitting down or getting up, putting food on a plate, setting a dish on the table, washing pots, cleaning the sink, or cutting vegetables may reveal how much we actually depend on and enjoy hearing ourselves make noise. Making noise may have the aspect of reassuring us of our continued existence as somebody, often somebody important. Can all of this come into awareness instantly as it happens? What happens when it actually is realized? Does one continue inattentively, blaming oneself for it, feeling guilty, resolving to become more attentive in the future, or does extra noise simply end in clear awareness? It is for each one of us to find this out.

When images about how one should or should not behave, or how things should or should not be, do not captivate and control the mind and movements of the body, there is freedom to attend—freedom to question without knowing. Then the wind in the trees, the sound of rain dropping on the roof, footsteps in the hall, the chirping of birds, the clanking of pots, the barking of dogs, and the passing of a car do not break the silence.