The Gift of Silence

“Silence is the gift we give each other.” A Catholic monk recently told me this while trying to explain his lifestyle. The Trappists at St. Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer, Massachusetts are a cloistered order. They rarely leave their enclosure and spend much of their day in prayer and study. The depth of their silence is profound. Walking the halls of the monastery, I craned my ear in search of some sign of everyday life—the slamming of a door, the shuffling of papers, the whispers of an idle conversation—but there were none, just the muffled footfalls of my guide. He explained that once the order was quite strict about maintaining silence, but since the reforms of Vatican II they’d relaxed the prohibition on speech. Silence is now less a commandment than a virtue. I found this surprising at first, given just how still everything was, but my guide explained that the peace of the place was a natural byproduct of their devotions. In order to live a contemplative life silence is essential, and so each brother is careful to make as little noise as possible—not just to further his own prayers, but as a courtesy to his neighbors. The experience made me reflect on just how closely related the ideas of “peace” and “quiet” are. Surely one can exist without the other, but ideally they come as a package deal. As the father of a one-year old, I’ve encountered little of either in recent months. While it’s true the pitter-patter of tiny feet is a joyous thing, that noise is often followed by a thud and two minutes of crying after the little one toddles right into a wall. As a survival tactic, my wife and I have adopted a relay style of parenting, passing our son back and forth in turns. When it all gets to be a little too much—when the fussiness reaches a crescendo and the thought of reading that same Sandra Boynton book for the twentieth time that day makes us want to give up—whoever’s psyche is in better shape will offer to take the load for a while. The words “why don’t you get out of the house” have supplanted “I love you” as the truest expression of our devotion for one another. Like the monks, we give each of the gift of silence, and, however fleeting it may be, we cherish that gift above all others. Often our little breaks only consist of a brief trip to the café, but when time permits we both retreat to our preferred sanctuaries. My wife tends toward yoga classes; I usually end up in the library. That seems appropriate to me. There is nothing so much like a monastery in the secular world as a good library (it’s certainly one of the few places where the gift of silence is still considered a virtue). The best of them look the part, too, like the Boston Public Library pictured above. My own library is somewhat less grandiose than that. It’s floors are carpeted, not marble, and there are no muraled friezes that I am aware of. Still, the place gets great sunlight and there is a secluded corner at the back of the stacks, far from the bustle of the common computer area, where a man can be alone with his thoughts. When I slip back to my haunt, I’m careful to make as little noise as possible. I set my bag down thoughtfully on the desk and lift the chair as I pull it out so it doesn’t scoot along the floor. There are usually two or three others cloistered at tables nearby. I have no idea if they notice the extra effort I make not to disturb them and, in fact, I hope they don’t. We’re all here for different reasons, but we came looking for the same thing. I settle into my seat, take out some work, and seek a moment’s peace alongside my brothers here in this temple of silence. This post was first published in 2015 and has been updated.