Talking is highly overrated. This might seem like a strange statement coming from a psychologist and a professor. After all, much of my job involves talking. It’s very hard to teach anyone anything or to conduct therapy without talking (including sign language, texting, emailing, and other written communication). Indeed, if I went mute or stopped writing, I’d be out of work very quickly. So, why would I suggest that talking is so overrated? Well, on the heels of a silent mindfulness retreat that I attend every year, I’ve been thinking a lot about the value of silence.
Imagine for a moment what it would be like to go through a whole day in your regular life without talking. You get up in the morning, make breakfast, perhaps greet your loved ones with a hug or smile, and eat together in silence, focusing on your meal and the presence of those who are with you. Nobody tells you that you’re loading the dishwasher improperly, that you left your dishes on the table, or that you are eating too loudly. There are no arguments or misunderstandings about turns of phrase or voice-tone, because of all of your communication occurs via what you’re doing rather than what you’re saying. Because 95% of what normally bothers you about your loved ones has something to do with what they’re saying, how they’re saying it, the volume of their speech, the punctuated screams and yells from the kids, and so on, you experience an unusual sense of peace. Although you still have thoughts about the remaining 5%, you can’t say anything, so the thoughts slowly stop nattering at you – they can’t get what they want anyway. You experience an unusual sense of acceptance. The kids paradoxically get ready exactly on time, precisely because you don’t remind them of anything. Then, you get ready for the day. It turns out that, on a whim, you decide to wear a big Santa Claus hat even though it’s the end of February. As you walk to the bus, nobody yells, “Hey Santa, getting a little demented?!” Although you might get some looks, there’s no overt judgment, because nobody can say anything. You get on the bus and notice that nobody is swearing, muttering to themselves, or threatening the bus driver. Just for fun, you take the bus back home and see what it’s like to drive in a world of no talking. You turn on the radio, and all you hear is dead air and the creepy breathing of the radio host, who is also not allowed to talk. Because of this, you have no idea what kind of traffic to expect, and you just drive into the unknown. You don’t worry too much about being late, as nobody will say anything about it anyway. When you get in a traffic jam, you feel frustrated, but you don’t yell or curse at anyone. You don’t get arrested for checking your email or text messages, because there’s nothing to check. When you arrive at work, you go to your office, turn on your computer, and still there’s no email to respond to. Because email takes up 75% of your workday, you’re done for the day after 2 hours, and nobody complains to the HR department about your hat, the fact that you were an hour late, or the fact that you’re leaving early. As you walk to your car, your phone is eerily silent – no ringing or beeping, and no signals of an arriving text or email message. When you meet your partner after work for dinner, you point out what you want from a pictorial menu (the kind that you often silently and not so silently judged as an hallmark feature of the kind of restaurant you’d never eat at), and mindfully eat together. As you hold the door open for someone in a wheelchair, you receive no thanks, but no thanks is needed. The action of holding the door open and the experience of seeing the person get through with ease are all you need. During a post-dinner walk, the people you pass in the street (although they look, walk, dress, and sometimes smell different) start to seem not so different from you. You begin to notice that we’re all people doing things. There are no words, opinions, judgments, complaints, criticisms, beliefs, arguments, and so on to separate you from them. You and all of the people you encounter simply are. To be continued… – Alexander L. Chapman, Ph.D., R.Psych.