First of all, sending you a virtual hug. We need more hugs in this world.
I very rarely get the chance for silence, even in bed at night my neighbour has a very noisy power shower and sometimes showers at 2300, but when I do get silence, it’s extremely precious to me.
Your post reminds me that we ARE nature, we are not separate from it, but our minds have separated us from it, and we don’t realise that by destroying it, we are destroying ourselves.
I’m sat here at my kitchen table waiting for an online course to start that I must attend. But the table is made of solid oak, and after reading your post, whether imaginary or not, I felt the harmonic vibration of the wood, the whole table was vibrating, not like a solid object, a vibration of atoms holding it all together. And of course atoms are what are holding me together (gluons I think?).
Then I thought of the oak tree that the table is made out of, how it started from an acorn, it fell from a tree, perhaps it was buried by a squirrel and the squirrel forgot, the tree could have been chopped down at any point to fulfil a human need, to make a stool, or even an English battle ship to fight the French, but it found its way here, now, in front of me, holding up my laptop. Of course I can also think of the millions of oak trees that this table is descended from, from the very first oak tree that existed.
So thank you for your article, if I hadn’t read it I wouldn’t have thought of all these wonderful things. I feel much more relaxed and connected to everything before my online course starts in exactly 5 minutes lol
Thank you, Karl; hugs are indeed undersupplied for most of us. I'm sending one your way, too :)
Your reflection about the origins of the table present in your home and the connection you have with it is so profound and beautiful. I am grateful you shared it with us all! "To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings," wrote David Whyte in his poem "Everything is Waiting For You". When we open ourselves to the recognition of interbeing, we can feel a little less lonely and abandoned. It is not the kind of love and connection we're accustomed to, which causes us to struggle to recognise it as valid and equally nurturing as the romantic love many of us desire.
I believe that by cherishing both the love we receive from our partners, friends or family members, as well as the love that's abundantly available to us in the natural world (and within ourselves) at any given moment, we can truly feel whole.
Thank you for your beautiful words and reflections on silence. I know silence. I took my teenaged daughter to Uluṟu a couple years ago. I’ve been in Australia for 25 years, and we’d seen a bit of the country beyond where we live in Sydney, but we’d never been to the Red Centre. The first couple nights we stayed in a glamping campsite in a yurt, in the middle of the desert. In the day it was beautiful and vibrant with red soil and the bright green of leaves in stark contrast. At night, it was as if you could see the entire galaxy. The sky was a wonderland. Mesmerising. I finally understood why it’s called Milky Way. It was like a swathe of stars just caught in a spiderweb of mist. Incredible what light pollution conceals. I think if we didn’t have light pollution and humans could see the stars as they’re meant to be seen, we might ALL have a more mystical understanding of reality. Modernity!
But the silence. Oh my God, the silence of that place. The silence was deafening. I never truly understood that expression until I was in the desert Central Australia. It was remarkable. There were no bird noises during the day, and then at night, no cicadas, no possum sounds like we’re used to having in the city. So much no-sound that after a day my ears were numb. I felt like I could hear the humming of my very being. Like everything was OMMMMMM. I am desperate to go back on my own actually, just to sit in that true silence.
Since that time I have done some Shamanic training and a Vedic meditation course. In both traditions, quite different traditions, there is the concept of a Void which is silent, where you go to meet with creator energy. In both traditions, in the void, I experienced the same vibrational quality of the OM mantra as I did near Uluṟu.
So my conclusion is that true silence is loud, intense, absolute, and full of energy! Thank you for your writing and your thoughts Justyna! Such a delight.
Dear Michelle, thank you so much for reading, being here, and sharing your experience with me and the community!
I am in awe of the kind of silence you describe here. It reminds me of the times I sat still deep in a cave or when I submerged my head under the water in the ocean, and all I could hear was my own heartbeat and the gentle hum of the spaces that contained me. I am yet to experience the beauty and musical silence of the desert. I hope you can return there soon, as you say, and rest in this soothing embrace. I also love the way you put it "true silence is loud, intense, absolute, and full of energy"—this description shows clearly how potent and transformative silence can be.
As for the stars, my friend once wrote, "Looking down at phones must be cursed considering our ancestors would always be looking at the stars", and I think about it quite often. I am also reading a book now called "The Wild Edge of Sorrow" by Francis Weller, and in there, he touches on different "gates" through which grief enters our lives. One of them is the disconnect from the natural world. The reason why we feel unwelcome in the world and abandoned might be because we banished ourselves from it; we built walls—both physical and mental—that keep us separated and cut off from the very source we come from. Lifting our gaze to the stars and protecting our collective ability to do so, we would likely benefit beyond what we can imagine today.
Oh I will have to read this book! Thank you so much for referencing it. My life is so much richer for these connections and thoughts and writings here, thank you 🙏🏻🙏🏻
In my earlier post of June 7th I mentioned how meaningful it has been for me to go sing in a beautiful church.
That church burned to the ground Sunday morning. I arrived for our choir warmup to find that I couldn’t drive down the street. The cop explained that a church was on fire. I parked and ran down the street to see this once magnificent building burning. Nothing could be saved. Built in 1908 it houses murals by members of The Group of Seven who were and continue to be revered by Canadians throughout our country. Much more was lost, instruments, a large and important collection of choral music, stunning stained glass etc.
But for many of us what was lost was the acoustic brilliance of the building. To sing in there has been one of the highlights of my musical life. I’ve also played horn there as well.
If anyone is interested in looking at the building and its art and dome, there are pictures on line. St. Anne’s Anglican Church. Toronto. Canada.
Unfortunately, I cannot contribute to the fundraiser at the moment, but I wish with my whole heart that your community succeeds in rebuilding the church. Moments like this show the power of community—that you still gathered and sang, it's beautiful.
Oh I was not mentioning the fund because I was trying to promote the fund. Just an explanation of what is happening in the community. I really appreciate your concern and your replies to me. And I continue to enjoy your writing.
Yes! And I wish everyone could have access to it and that time spent in nature would be considered a basic human right. Perhaps then we'd have more reverence for the natural environment we took for granted for way too long
comments because your writing of today really hits home for me.
- I’m a musician, playing horn for most of the years I’ve been alive, getting music degrees, the masters in horn performance.
- Now I also sing, take voice lessons, sing in two choirs. Singing art music, not pop.
- once a year three friends and I take a 7 day trip to a provincial park. We canoe into the lake where we camp ( well portage as well!) after driving a few hours north of Toronto. This year we set up in two different camp sites, in the past it was three. We must acknowledge our “older” bodies. No motor boats, camp sites are far apart. This is where I get myself repaired. The silence is golden, when sunny, or starlet silver, or a black silence on a moonless night. Or a blue wash of soft sounds of water or loons when I am swimming my several kilometres on the lake.
— I taught instrumental music for 34 years, which means I was surrounded by a cacophony of sound/noise/ occasional music throughout my working day. I needed silence. That kind of job is exhausting-gr 7 and 8, multiple classes a day. The value of silence is very clear to me.
- my orchestral playing involves often very loud playing. Last concert two weeks ago - The Alpine Symphony by Richard Strauss. And other works. The Alpine required extra brass and winds, huge sounds! Loved playing it. Rests in music are so vital.
- singing two concerts this weekend, there will be some soft delicate singing.
- feeling that singing these concerts in one of the most beautiful churches we have in Toronto (where I sing every Sunday as of last year, and where i am rightfully called the resident heathen.) would be healing for me
— yesterday my dear black cat, Jazz was put to sleep here at home, after a short illness, 17 years old. I am grieving as is my son who lives with me. My heart is broken from this loss though I know what will help: the silence of nature, the glory of choral singing, stroking my other aged cat, seeing my jazz bass player son get out to his rehearsals and gigs.
And reading your posts. Thank you. I’m sorry this turned out much longer than anticipated.
First and foremost, I want to express my deepest gratitude for you opening up and sharing yourself. It is truly beautiful and touching. The world of music is, sadly, largely untapped for me, as I am utterly ungifted in this area. I've had my attempts at playing the piano and guitar, but to no avail. I've always admired artists like yourself who can move the air in such a way that it sings — either through their lungs or through a musical instrument. Your work seems wonderful to me, but, as you say, I am sure it is not without its challenges.
Your description of the silence you encounter at your annual camping trips is so poetic that it's easy to tell you've connected with it deeply and profoundly. I am glad to hear you find solace in it; I hope it can continue to nurture you.
Finally, I am terribly sorry to hear about Jazz. I know very well how much it can hurt to lose a beloved furry friend, a best friend, and my heart reaches out to yours in this time. I hope you feel held. It is heartening to know that you're familiar with ways that can offer you comfort, and I am humbled that you include my writing among them as well. I hope I will not disappoint you, and please feel welcome to write to me any time!
First of all, sending you a virtual hug. We need more hugs in this world.
I very rarely get the chance for silence, even in bed at night my neighbour has a very noisy power shower and sometimes showers at 2300, but when I do get silence, it’s extremely precious to me.
Your post reminds me that we ARE nature, we are not separate from it, but our minds have separated us from it, and we don’t realise that by destroying it, we are destroying ourselves.
I’m sat here at my kitchen table waiting for an online course to start that I must attend. But the table is made of solid oak, and after reading your post, whether imaginary or not, I felt the harmonic vibration of the wood, the whole table was vibrating, not like a solid object, a vibration of atoms holding it all together. And of course atoms are what are holding me together (gluons I think?).
Then I thought of the oak tree that the table is made out of, how it started from an acorn, it fell from a tree, perhaps it was buried by a squirrel and the squirrel forgot, the tree could have been chopped down at any point to fulfil a human need, to make a stool, or even an English battle ship to fight the French, but it found its way here, now, in front of me, holding up my laptop. Of course I can also think of the millions of oak trees that this table is descended from, from the very first oak tree that existed.
So thank you for your article, if I hadn’t read it I wouldn’t have thought of all these wonderful things. I feel much more relaxed and connected to everything before my online course starts in exactly 5 minutes lol
Thank you, Karl; hugs are indeed undersupplied for most of us. I'm sending one your way, too :)
Your reflection about the origins of the table present in your home and the connection you have with it is so profound and beautiful. I am grateful you shared it with us all! "To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings," wrote David Whyte in his poem "Everything is Waiting For You". When we open ourselves to the recognition of interbeing, we can feel a little less lonely and abandoned. It is not the kind of love and connection we're accustomed to, which causes us to struggle to recognise it as valid and equally nurturing as the romantic love many of us desire.
I believe that by cherishing both the love we receive from our partners, friends or family members, as well as the love that's abundantly available to us in the natural world (and within ourselves) at any given moment, we can truly feel whole.
Thank you for your beautiful words and reflections on silence. I know silence. I took my teenaged daughter to Uluṟu a couple years ago. I’ve been in Australia for 25 years, and we’d seen a bit of the country beyond where we live in Sydney, but we’d never been to the Red Centre. The first couple nights we stayed in a glamping campsite in a yurt, in the middle of the desert. In the day it was beautiful and vibrant with red soil and the bright green of leaves in stark contrast. At night, it was as if you could see the entire galaxy. The sky was a wonderland. Mesmerising. I finally understood why it’s called Milky Way. It was like a swathe of stars just caught in a spiderweb of mist. Incredible what light pollution conceals. I think if we didn’t have light pollution and humans could see the stars as they’re meant to be seen, we might ALL have a more mystical understanding of reality. Modernity!
But the silence. Oh my God, the silence of that place. The silence was deafening. I never truly understood that expression until I was in the desert Central Australia. It was remarkable. There were no bird noises during the day, and then at night, no cicadas, no possum sounds like we’re used to having in the city. So much no-sound that after a day my ears were numb. I felt like I could hear the humming of my very being. Like everything was OMMMMMM. I am desperate to go back on my own actually, just to sit in that true silence.
Since that time I have done some Shamanic training and a Vedic meditation course. In both traditions, quite different traditions, there is the concept of a Void which is silent, where you go to meet with creator energy. In both traditions, in the void, I experienced the same vibrational quality of the OM mantra as I did near Uluṟu.
So my conclusion is that true silence is loud, intense, absolute, and full of energy! Thank you for your writing and your thoughts Justyna! Such a delight.
Dear Michelle, thank you so much for reading, being here, and sharing your experience with me and the community!
I am in awe of the kind of silence you describe here. It reminds me of the times I sat still deep in a cave or when I submerged my head under the water in the ocean, and all I could hear was my own heartbeat and the gentle hum of the spaces that contained me. I am yet to experience the beauty and musical silence of the desert. I hope you can return there soon, as you say, and rest in this soothing embrace. I also love the way you put it "true silence is loud, intense, absolute, and full of energy"—this description shows clearly how potent and transformative silence can be.
As for the stars, my friend once wrote, "Looking down at phones must be cursed considering our ancestors would always be looking at the stars", and I think about it quite often. I am also reading a book now called "The Wild Edge of Sorrow" by Francis Weller, and in there, he touches on different "gates" through which grief enters our lives. One of them is the disconnect from the natural world. The reason why we feel unwelcome in the world and abandoned might be because we banished ourselves from it; we built walls—both physical and mental—that keep us separated and cut off from the very source we come from. Lifting our gaze to the stars and protecting our collective ability to do so, we would likely benefit beyond what we can imagine today.
Oh I will have to read this book! Thank you so much for referencing it. My life is so much richer for these connections and thoughts and writings here, thank you 🙏🏻🙏🏻
In my earlier post of June 7th I mentioned how meaningful it has been for me to go sing in a beautiful church.
That church burned to the ground Sunday morning. I arrived for our choir warmup to find that I couldn’t drive down the street. The cop explained that a church was on fire. I parked and ran down the street to see this once magnificent building burning. Nothing could be saved. Built in 1908 it houses murals by members of The Group of Seven who were and continue to be revered by Canadians throughout our country. Much more was lost, instruments, a large and important collection of choral music, stunning stained glass etc.
But for many of us what was lost was the acoustic brilliance of the building. To sing in there has been one of the highlights of my musical life. I’ve also played horn there as well.
If anyone is interested in looking at the building and its art and dome, there are pictures on line. St. Anne’s Anglican Church. Toronto. Canada.
Oh no that’s terrible…. What a tragedy!
I'm so terribly sorry to hear that, Elizabeth! What a loss...
Do you think they'll try rebuilding it?
Thank you. Yes there is a drive to rebuild. Insurance will never cover the cost but a gofundme account has been set up.
Yesterday we had a service in the parking lot next to the Parish Hall. The choir sang, it all felt surreal.
Unfortunately, I cannot contribute to the fundraiser at the moment, but I wish with my whole heart that your community succeeds in rebuilding the church. Moments like this show the power of community—that you still gathered and sang, it's beautiful.
I'm sending hugs and strength to you.
Oh I was not mentioning the fund because I was trying to promote the fund. Just an explanation of what is happening in the community. I really appreciate your concern and your replies to me. And I continue to enjoy your writing.
Ah yes, of course, I just wish I could help more
I love being in nature. Being grounded in sounds and sights and the feelings of the earth.
Yes! And I wish everyone could have access to it and that time spent in nature would be considered a basic human right. Perhaps then we'd have more reverence for the natural environment we took for granted for way too long
I will leave abbreviated
comments because your writing of today really hits home for me.
- I’m a musician, playing horn for most of the years I’ve been alive, getting music degrees, the masters in horn performance.
- Now I also sing, take voice lessons, sing in two choirs. Singing art music, not pop.
- once a year three friends and I take a 7 day trip to a provincial park. We canoe into the lake where we camp ( well portage as well!) after driving a few hours north of Toronto. This year we set up in two different camp sites, in the past it was three. We must acknowledge our “older” bodies. No motor boats, camp sites are far apart. This is where I get myself repaired. The silence is golden, when sunny, or starlet silver, or a black silence on a moonless night. Or a blue wash of soft sounds of water or loons when I am swimming my several kilometres on the lake.
— I taught instrumental music for 34 years, which means I was surrounded by a cacophony of sound/noise/ occasional music throughout my working day. I needed silence. That kind of job is exhausting-gr 7 and 8, multiple classes a day. The value of silence is very clear to me.
- my orchestral playing involves often very loud playing. Last concert two weeks ago - The Alpine Symphony by Richard Strauss. And other works. The Alpine required extra brass and winds, huge sounds! Loved playing it. Rests in music are so vital.
- singing two concerts this weekend, there will be some soft delicate singing.
- feeling that singing these concerts in one of the most beautiful churches we have in Toronto (where I sing every Sunday as of last year, and where i am rightfully called the resident heathen.) would be healing for me
— yesterday my dear black cat, Jazz was put to sleep here at home, after a short illness, 17 years old. I am grieving as is my son who lives with me. My heart is broken from this loss though I know what will help: the silence of nature, the glory of choral singing, stroking my other aged cat, seeing my jazz bass player son get out to his rehearsals and gigs.
And reading your posts. Thank you. I’m sorry this turned out much longer than anticipated.
Dear Elizabeth,
First and foremost, I want to express my deepest gratitude for you opening up and sharing yourself. It is truly beautiful and touching. The world of music is, sadly, largely untapped for me, as I am utterly ungifted in this area. I've had my attempts at playing the piano and guitar, but to no avail. I've always admired artists like yourself who can move the air in such a way that it sings — either through their lungs or through a musical instrument. Your work seems wonderful to me, but, as you say, I am sure it is not without its challenges.
Your description of the silence you encounter at your annual camping trips is so poetic that it's easy to tell you've connected with it deeply and profoundly. I am glad to hear you find solace in it; I hope it can continue to nurture you.
Finally, I am terribly sorry to hear about Jazz. I know very well how much it can hurt to lose a beloved furry friend, a best friend, and my heart reaches out to yours in this time. I hope you feel held. It is heartening to know that you're familiar with ways that can offer you comfort, and I am humbled that you include my writing among them as well. I hope I will not disappoint you, and please feel welcome to write to me any time!
With lots of love,
Justyna
dear justyna,
thank you for sharing this!
i love this question: "What does your melody sound like?"
the first answer that springs to mind is "everything."
much love
myq
Thank you so much, Myq! And that's a great answer—and a feeling :)