The comfort of silence

I have always had this need for silence. It’s more like a need for isolation, not necessarily physical isolation, but mental or spiritual isolation. In my youth I even thought I would end up becoming a contemplative monk.

You don’t, of course, need to live by yourself or in a monastery to become isolated. Sometimes you can be alone in a crowd.

I am comfortable in my own company. Two things gives me this ability: reading and writing. For me, both require silence to be most effective. I’m sure we are agreed that reading is among the best foundations for building of character, and the quickest way to know the world.

It is not by coincidence that almost all religions espouse reading (and writing) in highest degree. Most of the Jewish prophets were commanded by angels or Yahweh to commit what they heard in writing—cast it in stone, like the Ten Commandments.

When the Archangel Gabriel visited the prophet Mohamed, the angel commanded him: “Read! Read!” Thus Ramadan, a purifying time for intensive worship and reading of the Qu’ran, was established.

The New Testament is a testimony to the power of the Word and stories told about the Word’s incarnation. Even traditional religions require periods of seclusion before one can become a sangoma, guru or whatever.

Though I profess it as my vocation, I am a little ambivalent about writing. It has become increasingly clear to me over the years that in order to write regularly I need something akin to seclusion. Writing makes me self-absorbed, less sensitive to the needs of others, less flexible and spontaneous. I sometimes feel I put a strain on those who have to live around me because of my writing. And yet, when I don’t write I become even more miserable.

I derive comfort from the fact that our Lord didn’t have perfect relations with those around him—even if for different and less mundane reason than mine: “Did you know I must be about my father’s business”, “My mother and brother are those who do the will of my father” and so on.

I know that does not compare to my frustrating attempts and desperations of constructing, formulating, reconsidering, deconstructing, and seeking that elusive right phrase before you amend it again for Xth times. But while in the thick of things in writing you also feel inhibited by many competing voices for your attention, for which you must moderate, prioritise, in trying to control the flow of a narrative. In writing, what is character development if not another teaching by example of a good/bad life to be conducted or avoided?

Writing, of course, is the art of allowing yourself to be conquered by your inner broodings, the voice within—none too different from seeking salvation. It is the ability to be taken over by the surrounding of your imagination—bordering on madness. There are dangers lurking in the conscience.

The writer may choose to follow the broad way instead of the narrow gate, and be lured into believing that they are masters of their own fate, and the only life that matters is the one in their head; the dangers of pride—I will not serve. Those who take the narrow way are faced with similar demands of salvation: deep transformation to the way of looking at the world and the demands of self-surrendering love.

When I am writing I tend to wander in a fog, stagger from one thought to another, observe myself drifting away from others without control. I feel bad for being so difficult to live with, and sometimes even catch something resembling depression. But with age I’ve learned not to be too hard on myself about my failures.

I keep the lyrics of the song “Break Me” by Grand Prize ever close to mind. I’ve learnt to understand the wisdom of being patient with myself:

Break down pull my pride down / Break me away from me / I’m trapped again and I’m drowning in sin / I can’t explain this feeling / Who will deliver me / From the wretch that I am… The endless cycle of demise / Feeling flight for compromise / Light is shining through the pain / Take these chains and break these lies.