The Softness of Silence

A puddle on a gravel road reflecting bare trees.

I’m writing this from a cottage.

The porch is dripping, the sky is low, my socks are all damp from so many walks in the rain. Marshall is a pile of paws and soft breath on the rag rug beside me, Ian is in the kitchen making a bacon and egg sandwich, his body bouncing to whatever’s in his headphones.

We’re not talking. It’s perfect.

For many years, we’ve used silence as a tool at Firefly. We do it at least twice on retreats — long stretches of focused, quiet time to write and just to write, to listen, to receive. Many people are nervous the first time. I was too. Quiet creates space and in that space we find parts of ourselves.

We tell them — this isn’t about not making noise. Sigh, stretch, rummage for your favourite mug. But step back from each other.

We tell them — draw an invisible curtain around yourself.

We tell them — assume everyone has what they need. Take care of you.

We tell them — we’re here if you need us.

Then we begin. Sometimes we ring a little bell. Sometimes we all take a breath together. It doesn’t really matter. The idea is to all agree to step in together.

When we cross that line, something fundamental changes.

An invisible door has whooshed open and we’re suddenly on the other side of it, together but also solitary, connected but not called on.

I find myself walking more slowly, aware of each step.
I find myself noticing the colour of things, the quiet hidden corners of beauty.
I find myself in a deep reverence for everyone in the room, and for the work they're doing.

After a while my own writing starts to come, clear and uncompromised, my voice remembering it’s rhythm and sway.

It’s a really good thing. And Ian’s a really good thing. Somehow, I’ve never put them together.

I woke up today sad and squirmy. We’re heading home tonight and I can’t feel the stillness I came here for. I’ve spent the last 2 days distracted by emails I need to send, worries turning into worst-case-scenarios in my head. Then I remembered silence.

Hey, um, babe, how would you feel if we didn’t talk to each other until lunch?

He was a little confused, but he’s a game kinda guy, so we figured out food plans and then just like that, whoosh. The worries softened. I went for a long slow walk. I looked at the trees reflected in puddles, the branches like capillaries, like lungs. My breath traveled down to my feet and back up, such a relief. And here it is, my writing voice, right where I left it.

Why is this so different from just... not talking?

I keep asking myself. Ian and I don’t rush to fill the air with words. Today we made an agreement not to talk, but there are also many hours when we just happen not to talk. Why don't I feel like this then?

I think it has to do with intention. That shared breath, the simplicity of, “Hey, let’s do this.” It creates a change. I’m rolling my eyes a bit; it all sounds impossibly flaky. “Intention? That’s what this newsletter is about?” But it is, yes. I’m owning it.

I’m going to carry this question forward — how else can I use intention to create space for fuller, wider experiences? I'd love it if you'd join me.

Whatever your path, whatever your next sentence, here’s to exploring all the treasures that a little hint of intention can bring.

In it with you,