The Slow Path to True Silence

I have a noisy life.

Oh, you too? I thought that might be the case.

Of course, by “noisy,” we don’t always mean audibly noisy. We mean noisy inside our own minds, don’t we? Yes, I have noisy children who chatter endlessly, who get loud in play and louder in distress or indignation, children who tend to get quiet only in sleep, but that’s really not what we’re talking about. We are talking about the “noisy” of this fast-spinning world that never shuts off, and our brains that have stopped shutting off because of it. The responsibilities of adult life in the modern world are noisy. The internet is noisy. Anxiety is noisy. Depression is noisy. Comparison is noisy.

The enemy is noisy.

Sometimes the noise is so hard to overcome that I can’t even read a novel. My mind just won’t stop its endless hum and engage the world on the pages. In those moments, the only way I can get relief is to watch something on TV–to overcome the noise within by adding noise without.

Two years ago now, I decided I’d had enough of the noise. I was almost desperate for a reprieve, for an escape. I was thinking about this one morning, in the external silence of my 5 a.m. house, when I suddenly remembered a silent retreat I’d gone on twelve years before at the end of a summer ministry project. We–my team and I–spent a day and a half at a Catholic retreat center in Illinois. We worshipped, we read and discussed Scripture, we prayed, we shared meals, but in between those things, we were silent. I remember the silence felt both like this enormous presence and like a relief of pressure. None of us had ever done anything like it.

I remember that the retreat center was an environment conducive to silence in that it was not noisy–in the audible sense as well as visually. The rooms and furniture were simple and spare. Any decoration was of a spiritual or natural kind. My room, with its narrow bed, bedside table, desk, and chair, was small and white and clean. The grounds were green and tree-lined. There were no TVs, no computers. We were asked to turn off our phones.

I remember lying on my back on a grassy slope of lawn and watching the clouds move across the sky. I remember leaving the retreat center feeling rested and refreshed in a way I had never experienced before.

So at 5 a.m. on that autumn morning two years ago, I knew suddenly what I longed for: to feel again like I’d felt on that silent retreat. To be in a space fully separated from the noise of my everyday life. To get into a space of true silence.

It’s ironic, I realize, but I opened my laptop and googled “women’s silent retreat Memphis.” Almost too easily to be believed, I found a nearby (three miles away, literally) retreat center that offered monthly half-day silent retreats for women. It had been there all along.

I signed up to attend at the first opportunity. I remember that first morning, the excitement I felt as I turned into the retreat center’s entrance, a dirt drive that led through woods filled with bare trees. I felt like I was crossing a threshold, stepping behind a veil.

I was warmly welcomed. The retreat center served a light breakfast, then we adjoined to a small chapel for a brief service of worship, a short but deeply inspiring message, and Communion. The following two and a half hours were spent in silence. The retreat leaders coached us to cultivate the silence by moving slowly and averting our eyes from one another. (Have you ever tried simply moving slowly on purpose in your normal life? It can have quite an effect on a day that feels busy and overwhelming.) We were welcome to color, write, read, nap (!), walk the trails on the extensive grounds. I’d brought along books, a journal, and my knitting, as I wasn’t sure how I’d want to spend the time. I read, journaled, scanned the shelves of old books in the lobby. I went for a walk and encountered a herd of deer. At the end of the silence, we gathered together back in the chapel, and anyone who felt inclined to share a thought or experience from the morning was invited to do so. We closed the retreat over lunch, a hearty and comforting meal.

I returned home satiated in every way. And I’ve gone back almost every month for two years now. It’s the day I look forward to most. And as I’ve continued to return to the retreat center, the silence has slowly become more silent for me. I always take a book and a journal and my knitting. I always begin the silence with a walk in the woods or across the meadow, but eventually, the noise inside me began to shut down during these times, like a chokehold slowly loosening. It took a long time. Now, I’m more inclined to sit on a bench at the edge of the meadow and listen and look–to observe the evidence of the Creator that surrounds me, to simply recognize his presence and be in it. It’s been a slow path to true silence, and I’ve certainly not arrived. It’s a good journey to be on.

Because of these mornings spent on retreat, I’m slowly beginning to be able to shut down the noise in my everyday life as well. I can sit for a few minutes in the dark of early morning and let my busy thoughts fall away. I can smell the aroma of my coffee and hear the crickets chirping outside, the early birdsong, and find respite from the inner noise. I can be quiet, in both body and in spirit, and know that the Lord is good. After all, the Lord tells us, “Be still, and know that I am God,” (Psalm 46:10).

What about you? Can you make some space for true silence in your busy life? Can you find a nearby retreat center, or, if there isn’t one, create your own at a local park or even in your own backyard? How can you begin to shut down the noise?

Harmony Harkema has loved the written word for as long as she can remember. A former English teacher turned editor, she has spent the past eleven years in the publishing industry. A writer herself in the fringe hours of her working-and-homeschooling mom life, Harmony also has a heart for leading and coaching aspiring writers. Harmony lives in Memphis with her husband and two daughters. She blogs at harmonyharkema.com.

Photograph © Bluebeyphoto, used with permission