Practice of Silence
In a monastery we ought to follow the advice of the psalm which says: I have resolved to keep watch over my ways so I may not sin with my tongue. I am guarded about the ways I speak and have accepted silence in humility, refraining even from words that are good.
“The Good Place” is a Netflix comedy that takes a hilarious look at the afterlife designed for “good people.” It’s cast of funny characters includes a silent Buddhist monk who never says a word. Though this is exaggeration for the sake of a laugh, it reflects a truism about Buddhism: Silence is the name of this game.
Buddhists, however, do not aspire to be zombies. A spiritual practice of silence is not about shutting down. As Benedict suggests, and Buddhists also practice, silence has spiritual value on two levels. As we refrain from sinning with our tongues, our minds and hearts are freed to deepen our connection to the greatest, word-less truths.
Buddhist practice begins as a practice of silence within the stillness of meditation, full minutes of silence and stillness, slowly strung together into longer stretches. Eventually one enters the meditation retreat experience of several full days of silence, including no eye contact, no speaking to other retreatants, no conversation at meal-time, no contact with anyone outside the retreat. It was excruciating to not extend even a word of greeting to others in passing, to share a meal with others and not converse, to not discuss the wonder of all that I was experiencing in my practice with family and friends. Silence was a much more difficult practice than hours of sitting on a hard cushion in a drafty zendo.
Speech is a medium through which we experience being part of a group. The call and response we have with each other is like bird song, giving others of our species clues about who we are and how we are, projecting our identities into the larger world. It can be difficult to see birds in the wild, easiest to know them through hearing their songs. This too is rather like people. Our true selves are hidden, only our noisy facades are identifiable.
Eventually I could see that as I discussed my practice with others, I was bragging, thrusting an identity out into the world. Eventually I saw that my tendency to compulsively connect with friends and family often reflected thinly veiled neediness that I look to others to assuage. I felt the anguish of letting loose with heated words, flung like arrows, meant to hurt.
Such failures are a necessary condition in this process of spiritual growth. In failing to remain silent, I show myself to myself. I squarely face my craving for control, one-up-ness, esteem, a lessening of the anxiety that I will be a lone bird, calling in vain for others of the species.
The fear and anger that drives so much of my speech began to lessen as I could feel my truest connection, the only relationship that I will follow into eternity. This love is not for the other birds, with whom my relationships will always be transient. As I don’t speak, I find I can turn my heart toward the undying, unchanging Source that lies beyond the human community we presently inhabit (but not for long). Growing in my love of the Source, I let go of needing others to affirm me. I find I feel deeper love for everyone and everything, and am driven less by needing something for myself.
By refraining even from words that are good we grow our ability to lean into and trust silence and stillness over thoughts and feelings generated by craving. Receptivity takes the place of assertiveness; an agitated mind is replaced with an open heart. We fly high above the tree tops, singing to all of our true colors.
Author: Getsu San Ku Shin
A Single Thread is not a blog. If for some reason you need elucidation on the teaching, please contact the editor at: yao.xiang.editor@gmail.com