by Richard
There’s something about sharing silence. It’s in our practice, and it was recently at the footy.
It happened a few months ago after getting free tickets for a Thursday night game. There was an unexpected speech before the match, and the crowd respectfully stood to listen. It was about former AFL coach Neale Daniher, who had passed away earlier that week. He had faced Motor Neurone Disease without complaint, establishing a charity and research fund.
Then the lights dimmed and there was a minute’s silence, which was a surprisingly powerful moment. There must have been about thirty thousand people in the stadium, all in stillness. There was a strong feeling that’s a little hard to describe, maybe a sense of human connection and mortality. But mostly, there was an incredibly magnified directness to the moment.
Then it ended, the sirens sounded, the crowd cheered, and the Hawks went on to win.
A few weeks later it happened again at the Mornington Peninsula, during an annual trip with my wife to the hot springs there. There are small pools hidden through the gully where friends sit and talk. The warm water seems to bring out an unusual level of honesty in people, at least going by the snippets of overheard conversation.
Then two elderly women got into a wooden barrel bath with us, and just sat in silence. At first, it felt awkward with only the four of us there. But then it was serene. You could see sunlight filtering through the tea trees with hundreds of raindrops on the branches, and a faint breeze was rustling through the gully.
There are different types of silence. Sometimes it’s awkward, sometimes solemn, sometimes comfortable. But “silence” doesn’t mean a total deadening of sound, as in noise cancelling headphones. The real world is there, and little sounds are brought to life… breathing, birds outside, distant traffic.
That was the aim of composer John Cage’s piece 4’33”, where the musicians sit on stage in silence for the entire duration. There are different movements, and it even has sheet music. Unsurprisingly the opening night was met with bemusement, people were probably asking for their money back. But he said: “you could hear the wind stirring outside during the first movement. During the second, raindrops began patterning the roof, and during the third the people themselves made all kinds of interesting sounds as they talked or walked out.”
In many traditions silent meditation occurs in groups, but even when alone, a sense of connection can emerge. This was mentioned in a recent Dharma talk by our teacher Geoff Dawson. And on ABC Radio’s Conversations, the same point was made by Pico Iyer, who has written extensively on silent retreats. He has said “Words so often cut us in two. I believe this, and you believe that…. and in this world that feels ever more divided and despairing, nothing gives me greater hope than whatever silence we can find and share”
People have different backgrounds, perspectives and footy teams. But in silence there is an underlying connection, reality is being shared. Sunlight filters through the tea trees, a faint breeze rustles in the gully.
