The Sound of Silence

Since my burnout, I've stopped listening to the radio or audiobooks while doing everyday things. I used to turn on my favourite classical music station or listen to audiobooks about management while doing the dishes, running or sitting on the train. I rarely do that anymore. I've come to enjoy the silence.

During a shinrin-yoku experience just outside Rotterdam, our guide asked us to close our eyes and listen to the forest. The first thing I noticed was the sound of the highway nearby. One participant mentioned that the traffic noise disturbed her experience. She had come to the forest to find silence, but the highway was making that difficult.

At another shinrin-yoku experience in the Netherlands, the guide told us that there is only one square kilometre in the country where you cannot hear a highway or traffic. I don't know if that's still true, but it made me think. What do we actually expect when we go into a forest? Nature is never completely silent. There are birds, insects, leaves rustling and branches moving in the wind. And sometimes, there is traffic.

Perhaps the question isn't whether we can find silence, but whether we can listen to the sounds that are already there. Even the sound of a highway can become part of the experience, if we allow it to be. And if we notice that it irritates us, we can listen to that irritation too. We might even notice our expectation that the forest should be silent.

This reminds me of John Cage's 4′33″. A pianist enters, opens the piano, closes the lid and sits silently for four minutes and thirty-three seconds. There is no music played, yet the audience hears plenty: people shifting in their seats, coughing, sighing, breathing. The piece invites us to listen to the sounds around us, sounds we might otherwise ignore. In a way, it is a mindful experience. We become aware of what is already there.

For a long time, I filled almost every moment with music or audiobooks. I thought I simply enjoyed listening to them, or was using my time efficiently. Looking back, I realise that they also helped me avoid silence. I didn't really want to be alone with my thoughts, or sit still and listen to what was going on inside me. There was always something else to listen to, something to keep me busy.

I was already aware of a sound in my ears: a continuous humming, like a refrigerator, with two notes going back and forth. Over time, it became louder and more constant. I noticed it, but I chose to ignore it. I didn't want to face it, or really listen to it or acknowledge it.

At the time, I was deeply committed to my work. I believed I could make a difference and felt it was my responsibility to do so. I kept going, taking on more and more responsibility, even as I became increasingly exhausted. There was always something that needed my attention, something I felt I had to do.

The sound stayed with me for a long time, even after I began to make changes in my life. It took a long time to disappear. Perhaps that's also why I embrace silence now. Having spent so long trying not to hear that sound, I've come to treasure the quiet.

During a silent meditation day with my coaching group, we were asked to share our favourite song to end the day. Everyone had chosen a piece of music, and listening to the songs together was an emotional experience. But I hadn't chosen one. I realised that I didn't need music or words to express how I felt. I simply wanted silence. I wanted to listen again.

Silence has also become an important part of how I listen to others. As a coach, I don't feel the need to fill every pause with words. Sometimes, I let the silence remain, giving the other person space to think, to feel, or simply to be. I've come to treasure those moments. Not because nothing is happening, but because sometimes a lot is happening in silence.

I found silence.

And there, I listen again
to the sounds
loudest from within.

I listen to the stories
in the melody.

Like a cellist
supporting and accompanying.

I feel the tempos
and the rubatos.

Sometimes we go faster.
Sometimes we slow down.

In the silence, space emerges.

In the pauses,
we stand still together.

We don't need to know
where the music is going.

The passion may sound by itself.

We notice
where it resonates.

We play it together,
and yet we are not the music itself.

Let us together
search for the music.