The Spaciousness of Silence

Who cannot understand your silence, cannot understand your words. J.R. Tolkien

I went back to work, and even though everyone knew my sister had died, no one said a word.

I ran into a close friend at the grocery store, but instead of saying something about my son’s suicide, she turned down an aisle to avoid me.

Talk to anyone grieving the loss of one of their essential people, and they will tell you how quiet the world gets after their beloved dies. The way people they know well and thought they could count on hold their tongues, swallow their words, turn away.

I get it. We are a radioactive group, especially those of us who have lost our people all out of order or in particularly horrifying ways. Beyond, “I am so sorry,” what is there to say really to the mom whose baby was stillborn, to the wife whose husband died before they could have children, to the young man whose mother was taken by cancer just when he needed her most.

Death thrusts stony silence upon us in so many ways. The quiet we crave when loss leaves us raw and exposed. The calls that never come, the words people don’t say. The words we can’t find when someone does reach out or say something kind. The stories that hurt too much to tell.

Even under normal circumstances, silence can be freighted. I gave him the silent treatment. Maintain the cone of silence. Don’t speak until spoken to. Silent but deadly. Wordless rage. Staying quiet. Silence as weapon. Silence as wound.

It’s no wonder we rush to fill the pauses in a conversation, especially when someone we love is hurting. It isn’t just the quiet that makes us uncomfortable. It’s the desire to take action with our words. To improve the situation, to reassure our friend or family member, to ease their pain. It’s only when it becomes our turn to grieve that we understand how little it matters the exact words kind people say when offering comfort or support. What does is that they have the courage to say anything at all.

One of my favorite humans to spend time with is Laura, my fitness coach and mender of all injuries. When we’re together, I often tease Laura that the only way she convinces me to do hard, painful stretches or workouts is by telling funny stories and making me laugh. Her cheerful chatter is often how I navigate a challenging series of exercises or breathe through a muscle knot that’s protesting when I pause over it on the foam roller.

Ten years ago, at Jimmy’s celebration of life, Laura made up a small plate of food, grabbed a bottle of cold water and followed me around, making sure I had a few bites to eat and some small sips of water. I can’t recall a word of what she said during the moments we were alone, other than, ‘you need to eat something,’ but I still remember the feeling of her tending to me, nourishing me, holding me upright. The way she stayed silent when we were in a group to leave space for others to talk.

That kind of soft silence is roomy and warm, so different than the absence of sound. It’s the hush that comes when the other person is present and listening, instead of worrying about what to say. It’s the invitational expanse that allows someone in pain to lead a conversation toward what hurts or feel safe saying where they want to go instead. It’s a quiet space where it’s okay to cry instead of having to worry about or navigate the other person’s reaction. A place to be heard instead of just responded to.

I am learning to breathe and wait for the pause before offering off base or unwelcome advice. It’s easy to find myself saying something simplistic about a complicated relationship and hard to remember that the silence isn’t necessarily mine to fill. When it is, inviting the other person to tell me about their beloved who’s died is more meaningful than anything I could think of to say.

Maybe the problem is that we got the message all wrong. That instead of pressuring ourselves to show up and say the perfect words, we need to remind ourselves to show up and listen. To be present with the other person’s pain. To sit with their suffering and allow them to speak or stay silent. Instead of words, to offer the kind of silence that speaks volumes and makes other people feel less alone.

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