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Believing in Silence |
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written
by shivali / 10.24.2005 |
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| Silence and Belief |
1 of 1 |
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Assignment |
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Rome is a large city, equipped with its noise and distractions. With exciting events each and every day, it’s quite easily to lose yourself in the experience. Perhaps this is what I came to do. But with the intense noise, I truly can not remember. I wake up each morning to hear the drilling and clanking of metal as Italian men scream while renovating the Hotel de Campo de Fiori. Leaving my room means walking into a more public space filled with seven other girls. There is no silence in our apartment. The probability of at least two girls talking is high. Walking outside, I am convinced the Campo is selling its soul; between the crowds of tourists, the musicians, and the vendors, silence is the one thing you cannot buy.
Such distractions are apparent in city life in Seattle as well. Within the chaos of the city- the crazy drivers, the stressors of school, and the constant noise-I have a place that can be not only a physical, but emotional refuge as well. The temple I go to, just across the bridge from University of Washington, has defined the ideal space for my own religious experience. It is my haven. From the outside, it looks like a house, though it is a rather impressive house. Built in the early 20th century it overlooks the lake and is surrounded by lush, brightly-colored gardens. The sign outside the door simply reads, “Each soul is potentially divine.” I do not attend the regular services. Instead, I stop in when I am having a terrible day, have received some great news, or just need some time to reflect. It becomes hard for me to think in the city sometimes. The noise floods my thoughts and suddenly the proper words no longer seem adequate. My desperation increases the longer I am without such quiet time. A monk usually greets me at the door, always a bit surprised to see me at random hours or with months between my previous visits. When there is no service, the silence of the shrine is deafening. I can hear my breath. I had forgotten the sound of a deep breath and the nasally exchange of air. The silence is, at first, distressing. I find mind wandering and scattered. Images of teachers, friends, and research results flood. The white noise of the city has been my distraction from myself. The superficial façade is stripped. In the silence, I can hear nothing but myself. The tension lasts for a minute and gives way to calm. The shrine is decorated with fresh flowers and scenes on every wall of an ocean-side scene almost like a window inviting you into another place. Within a minute I, too, am beside the water.
I’m always scared I’ll lose myself to the noise-to the outside world and its demands. I return each time to the shrine to remind myself. In the silence, I am forced to consider, debate, and then conquer my fears and to find the heart of my troubles. There is no hiding here. There are no distractions. Within such a place, I feel truly spiritual. There is a clarity and peace of mind that comes only after such an intense struggle. In this quiet, I am revived. Parts of my sanity that I thought were lost always return. I can leave more capable of ignoring the noise and carrying some of the silence with me. It’s no longer physical silence; it’s a peace of mind that no raging cars, blaring music, or constant chatter can destroy. The peace of mind is permanent.
But in the Rome, the scenery is different and I require a reminder. When I enter the cloister, I am seeking relief. I need the silence. The irony of the silence of the nuns is that I’m waiting for one nun in particular to be silent. She is incessantly talking. The Italian chatter continues. But, the cloister is beautiful. It is physically closed off from Rome and its pollutants. The people who enter are seeking out their own spiritual experiences. The noise from the city cannot seep in. The fountain in the middle and the cool shade of the pillars helps the visitor understand the spiritual peace that is possible; the cloister is a physical remainder of the spirituality of the church. But my classmates quickly spill around the perimeter making the individual experience difficult. I close my eyes. Each noise is somehow amplified- the crunching of gravel under someone’s shoes, whispered conversations behind me, the clicking of cameras, and the distant snore. I wanted to the silence so badly that it was unattainable for me. I can understand, however, how people come to the cloister and feel the spiritual experience: such potentially peaceful atmosphere is a reminder of the religious treasures the Church holds.
When I go home, I will return to the Temple to provide myself with a physical reminder of the emotional calm I seek. Perhaps, the two worlds do not need to be distinct and separate. As I grow up, I hope to find a way to mold a silent spiritual refuge into the loud real world. Until then, I am more aware of my own shortcomings and my requirements for spiritual sanity.
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