On Silence – Madeleine Horton

“Silentium,” he ordered as he strode to the head of the table where his dozen children were already seated. It meant “Let there be silence,” my mother told me. Latin. It was one of her anecdotes about her strict father who had fled his strict German father and settled in England. As a child, I could sense the fear my mother often felt of her father and imagined the trepidation of those nameless children, eating in silence generations ago. Strangely, a modern table may exhibit silence too. A family of four may be equally quiet as dad checks his sports scores on his phone, mom scrolls through Facebook, a daughter texts a friend and a son glances through a site he knows he shouldn’t be on.

There is a good silence, the silence of everyone engaged in eating a wonderful meal, a silence that is likely only momentary, a silence to be broken when someone remarks on it, linking it to the fineness of the meal before them. Or the silence of a couple, deeply bonded, feeling no pressure to make constant talk as they eat, glancing at each other briefly, offering the hint of a smile. A silence that too will slip into words with no effort.

Another kind of silence is different. It is brittle silence, a heavy silence, a silence that envelops its space. The silence of withdrawal, the silence of anger, the silence that is a wall. The silent treatment.

As humans, we do not seem to really want either long or complete silence. We may say we can’t wait to get to the cottage, away from the endless noise of the city. We may brag that our getaway was so quiet and peaceful, not a sound. Except the lapping of the waves on the shore, the loons on the lake, the hooting of an owl at night, the croaking of frogs, wolves, yes wolves, howling in the distance at night.

Commonly, the lake today is likely to be the site of loud motorized water craft.

To me, there is a silent season. Winter. It is marked by no birdsong. Other seasons are filled with joyous song or raucous calling. In spring, even the crows caws are a welcome sign. Often a robin is heard before seen, giving a note of hope. Other songbirds add to the air of spring and summer. Winter birds like cardinal, bluejays, and the often ignored sparrows come back to life now. Even in fall, when many birds have left, there are the telling calls of Canada geese overhead, and the chattering of sparrows who group together at a birdfeeder. In winter, all energy seems to bind into the quest to survive. No time for birdsong.

The human tolerance for silence shows in the ways we shape it. Except for the exceptions, often of a religious nature where acolytes engage in meditative silence, our defined silences are usually brief. Two minutes of silence to mark the sacrifices of the dead on Remembrance Day. This is often abbreviated, especially in schools, as signs of restlessness quickly become apparent. “Let us take a moment to remember,” is said at funerals. A moment to recall a lifetime.

 Perhaps behind true silence, there is fear. The fear of finality.