How much silence do we need? Starting from silence, we develop the ability to hear sounds in the warmth of the womb. Few sounds are present in this living environment; the heart beating, blood being circulated, and mom’s rhythmic breathing.
When hearing starts, according to those studying ‘learning in the womb,’ and the sound gets turned on, we become developed enough to recognize sounds. Then we’re birthed into a life filled with a cacophony of noise.
While living in Bend, Oregon, I sought asylum in the Three Sisters Wilderness at every opportunity. Particularly bright in memory is a time when climbing a ridge leading to the constellations of broken peaks named Broken Top.
It was cold, and as darkness approached, near timberline, the last tree protected alcove on the ridge became my campsite. The campsite consisted of a ground tarp held down with rocks, a warm sleeping bag, and a few rocks large enough to sit on and use as a platform for cooking. The remnant cirque of the nine thousand foot sleeping stratovolcano was on the windward side of a group of Mountain Hemlocks that were providing protection from the wind.
The geologically ragged remains of Broken Top loomed behind the curtain of Mountain Hemlocks. The volcano last erupted 100,000 years ago, and just out of sight from my camp, I could feel, even hear her silence. Like anxiously anticipating the awaking of a sleeping giantess.
Simon Aeberhard, in his 2017 essay titled “Writing the Ephemeral,” he says, “Falling silent or even the possibility of sudden silence is filled with meaning …” Slowly it occurs that life grows quieter. Silence is filled with significance. This possibility of you falling silent to the world is always in front of you. A promise that will one day be actualized.
