Craving for silence like bacon and eggs
When I dream of a tasty, belly-filling breakfast, I think of crispy bacon with creamy scrambled eggs. No breakfast beats that. Simple, tasty, comforting. This irreplaceable gastronomic duo tastes even better when shared with those I love chatting around the table, on a no-school, no-schedule Sunday morning, a mug of coffee made silkier with half-and-half in hand.
This tasty breakfast staple brings me back to those carefree summers on the farm or mountains I used to visit as a child. There, some of our best days began with those strips of crisp salty pork and fluffy eggs, which we looked forward to because we couldn’t have them on ordinary school days. (My mom’s way of keeping our cheeks from becoming too chubby).
My longing for bacon and eggs isn’t rare. Most of those I know easily agree to how delectable this simple combo is first thing in the morning, but silence, that’s another story…
In our spotify-entrenched world, quiet often feels like empty space only meant for old age. It’s the soundtrack for idleness, and an uneventful life, not the rhythm of an enviable lifestyle or any routine worth taking seriously.
To our sound-drenched world, its opposite can signal “nothing important here”. A silent life can seem to us a trademark of an uninstagrammable, unfacebookable life.
I half felt this stigma having lunch alone one day in college. I was 18. The school dining room was stuffy, warm, and bubbling with peers chatting away. But I chose to sit alone.
As I was about to begin eating, a professor saw me, and asked if she could join me. I smiled and said yes. I knew she wanted to rescue me from social isolation, but part of me didn’t want rescuing. I craved for that chatter-free meal. It comforted me and brought me a piece of home, something like bacon and eggs.
This strange, perhaps anti-social longing for periods of no-talk comes from growing up in a house bathed in it. Not always, but often. My parents wanted to give my brothers and I as many nooks as they could to bask in quiet because they thought it would teach us something valuable. And it did.
Until we finished high school, our rooms only had books, no TVs or laptops. Our corridors had corners inviting us to prayer. Our windows looked out into green space that soothed, and when open, allowed us to listen to wind rustling through leaves.
Family time wasn’t just bantering over hearty meals, although we had a lot of those too. My mom and day would also take time to gaze at sunsets, seashores, and pieces of art with us. All of that in glorious soundlessness.
This unusual ambiance almost felt monastic, like Benedictine fortresses of old. In its gentle way, it prodded me to discover beauty and joy in keeping still and noiseless. There, I discovered how the absence of sound can pave the way to insight, gratitude for small joys, and clarity of heart. It was silence that allowed me to organize thoughts for school papers I had to write, and also gave me the space to listen to the poetic beauty of words on a page. Silence showed me the poetry of sunlight caressing leaves on a breezy afternoon or a bird jumping from tree branch to tree branch. And when I’d finally awaken to my deepest longings — longings that eventually led to my best, most nourishing choices — those moments also took place steeped in silence. These moments unlocked the treasure of silence for me, and now, as an adult, I often looked for it, even when most seem bored by the prospect of an afternoon without noise.
I’m not suggesting sound is a corrupt enemy. Sound matters too. It connects us. We need it to sing, to converse, to find ourselves dancing to drumbeats and guitars, to come together around chants turning millions of voices into one. Sound binds us to one another.
But it isn’t only sound that counts. We need its opposite too. Silence opens us to what moves in the deepest recesses of our hearts.
Someone who has yet to enjoy silence is like someone who hasn’t had the chance to start the day with bacon and eggs. With either, once you try it, life is never the same without.
So if you haven’t done so, or maybe it’s been awhile, give savoring quiet a try. Sit in silence one early morning, cradle a hot drink in your hands, sit on a bench overlooking a park, garden, brook or river before the workday starts, and notice what noiseless solitude can do for you. If nothing, try again, perhaps everyday for a week. Then, watch how your appetite for quiet expands, and with it, your eagerness for life.
But here’s a friendly warning: just like bacon and eggs, getting addicted to silence can be a dangerous thing. Like anything good, it works better in moderation.
originally published on Provoked to scribble
