"What are we supposed to do with that silence?"
My five-year-old daughter has a lot of big feelings. When she’s especially upset, she will hide her entire body (under the bed, behind a door, beneath a table). She hates it when I speak to her in these moments, and prefers that I wait until she emerges from her hiding spot to problem-solve together.
A week or two ago, in the aftermath of one of these incidents, I asked her to describe what she’s doing when she hides. She said, “I’m letting my body get quiet so I can really listen.”
The infinite wisdom of small children.
In a way, I feel like I’ve been hiding for the last few months, waiting for my body to get quiet. Waiting until I could hear my own thoughts. Taking space away from The Rebis after starting it last year wasn’t an easy decision. As a brand-new publication, I wrestled with the idea of losing momentum (and community) if I paused and went dark after our first issue. I worried that if I walked away, I might not return.
But I entered into creative hibernation anyway, and on my best days tried not to beat myself up for it. I read poetry. I rode horses. I went to Portugal and saw a lot of old castles. I looked at redwood trees. I played new music. I played old music. I cried while being held by someone I love. I watched caterpillars hang themselves upside down, harden, and turn into butterflies. I released the butterflies into my garden. I cooked meals that took four hours in the oven. I went to Mt. Shasta during what can only be described as a blizzard and took my clothes off in the snow. I thought about a lot of things and wrote very little about them. I learned how to embrace the not-knowingness and in-betweenness.
I’m practicing self-compassion. I’m trying to absorb slowly through my roots. I’m giving myself space.
I tuned into an episode of On Being where Krista Tippett interviews Ada Limón, the US Poet Laureate. They talk about how poems are both words and the space around the words. “When you open the page, there’s already silence,” Limón says. “And we think, ‘Well, what are we supposed to do with that silence?’”
What are we supposed to do with that silence?
I’m learning that in poetry, and in life, silence holds rhythm and structure. The space between words allows thoughts to breathe. It provides contrast. It creates meaning. You could say the same for pauses in music and for negative space in art and design. In Japanese, there is a concept called “ma” – a pause in time, an interval, or emptiness in space that gives shape and meaning to the whole. It’s written as 間 with the characters for “door” and “sun.” An opening, with light streaming through.
What are we supposed to do with that silence?
Maybe we enter into it. Submerge. Remake ourselves in it. Let our bodies get quiet. Really listen.
Happy new moon, happy equinox.
More soon. In the meantime, some poems about silence. ♥️
Hannah
i loved this reflection - thank you for sharing it! reminds me of another newsletter i read this week about silence and the concept of "ma" - silence as generative space, as balance, as a bridge. <3
Resonate with this deeply. I spent many of the winter months away, quiet, searching. Spring seems to be awakening many of us from slumber 🌸