If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with
death.

From “Keeping Quiet” by Pablo Neruda

Living in cities for many years has taught me to treasure quiet. There is music to the hum of streets, but the reset provided by quiet is elusive. I am an extrovert who truly loves quiet. I recharge in solitude. The struggle to listen more than talk, to be present (which is part of listening) more than behind or ahead, and to breathe in the midst of noise is real. I think a lot about what quiet means. I think about the space quiet allows. I think about “keeping” quiet.

I have lost a lot of my quiet equilibrium in recent years. By quiet equilibrium, I mean the ability to balance talking and listening, sound and silence, and thought and action. Experiencing too much quiet has left me uneasy. I fill silence for comfort. I interrupt. I answer questions before they are asked. I notice myself doing more of all that as the number of interactions I have with others has decreased. If awareness is a first step toward addressing an issue, I am there. (I know/hope I am not the only person who feels their social interaction muscles have atrophied in the midst of all that is.)

Keeping quiet, for me, means finding stillness. Keeping quiet, for Neruda, means participating in a world where languages don’t need to be spoken, arms don’t flail, nature is treasured, and movement is intentional and meaningful. I understand that in the same way my head clears when I get out doors. I pause before I react when a thought enters my mind. I get to my yoga mat to find my breath.