Gloriously Failing at Silence
How I suck at finding peace and somehow that became its own kind of sanctuary.
Let’s talk about silence for a hot minute.
For as long as I can remember, it's been my go-to sanctuary. Whether I'm lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts, devouring a book at highly ungodly speeds, or attempting to untangle some deeply rooted societal setback that pieces itself together on my ceiling, silence has always been my jam.
Yet, at the same time, I've never actually achieved silence. Not once.
It’s the very thing I crave most in this world, the nectar of my deeply introverted soul, yet it remains perpetually out of reach, no matter how much I contort myself into pretzel-like meditative poses and slowly scan from head to toe.
The outside world always has other plans — be it the roar of a leaf blower, birds who didn't get the memo about my "quiet time," or an AH-64 Apache using my house as a flight path marker.
And don't even get me started on the cacophony inside my own head during meditation; it's like a rave in there, and everyone's invited except my focus.
Yet, this doesn’t stop me from trying. Each morning, my phone, with a delightful sense of irony, lets out a birdsong (I love birds) with an alarm titled, "Start the day with 5-minutes of silence."
And I fail – spectacularly. Every. Single. Day.
Then, it's onto the next scheduled implosion of ringing Tibetan bells titled, “15 minutes of quiet meditation for lunch,” to which another glorious face-plant occurs into the unforgiving yoga mat of reality.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "This sounds like some bizarre form of self-torture.” But here’s the thing…these daily belly flops into the pool of failed goals are, dare I say it, grounding.
They are a not-so-gentle nudge from the universe reminding me that a vast majority of things are outside my control – including all the thoughts pinballing around my own skull. Each botched attempt at serenity leaves me weirdly grateful for the sheer variety show of interruptions. And maybe that’s the point of it all.
Just to provide a brief example…here is any given day.
I'm cross-legged, palms up like I'm expecting a tiny, invisible waiter to bring me a miniature croissant. I’m obviously hungry, and then I am captured by the melodic tones of davidji who is guiding me to "breathe in, breathe out, let go of all thoughts."
My mind, in its usual rebellious state, immediately dives into a passionate debate —oatmeal or eggs for breakfast?
As directed, I dutifully thank each thought for its cameo, try to refocus on my breath, and then promptly become obsessed with the kink in my shoulder blade. Davidji, bless his tranquil heart, urges me to "feel the sunshine on my face."
My internal monologue screams, "I hate being up this early, and I hate the feeling of yellow on my face!"
I wrap up this little 10-minute foray into the void with a heartfelt "Namaste" and another chuckle at my utter inability to achieve mental nothingness. Oatmeal and coffee it is – along with a side of amusement.
Meditation, much like life itself, isn't about nailing a perfect ten every time. It’s practice – and yes, I am just a fumbling apprentice in the workshop of my own existence, or would it be experiences in this case. I digress.
It is in this daily drill that I’ve come to be an observer, one who nods politely at the stampede of things I can’t control, and to gently force my attention back to the things I can. It’s a masterclass in learning my own ridiculous responses and then, with a sigh and a shrug, redirecting the mental spotlight.
So, while I jokingly label my morning routine a "daily failure," what's really brewing is a cup of resilience and self-compassion.
Kicking off the day by being kind to my own spectacularly flawed self has, surprisingly, deepened my self-awareness and made me more resilient to the outrageousness the rest of the day inevitably hurls. And let's be honest, calling out my failures first thing just injects a much-needed dose of humor into the day’s proceedings.
Having a laugh before my first cup of coffee is not just a source of joy; it's like a pre-emptive strike against the day's potential pressures.
With every gloriously unsuccessful attempt at silence, I grudgingly accept my humanity and open my heart and mind to a deeper sense of just being present – even if "present" means being acutely aware of the dog's snoring.
It’s shitty that society often frames failure as a negative mark on our permanent record, the truth is, we don’t learn, grow, or gain anything worthwhile without face-planting a few dozen times. By fearing failure, we can paralyze ourselves, preventing the attempt at new things or slogging through the sticky swamps of (sadness?), hesitation, shame, and self-doubt.
Hell, just this morning, the symphony of my surroundings was in full swing. The rain drumming against the sliding glass door, baby birds screaming for room service from my broken soffit, the rumble of a train to Portlandia, the neighbor's dog offering unsolicited opinions, and a rogue rooster belting out its morning death metal.
And, just as a sliver of quietude dared to peek through, my corgi, bless her gassy little heart, startled herself with the sound of her own…well, you know…breaking not only the rhythm of my breath but also my composure, which promptly dissolved into laughter as she turned around to view her rear-end in bewilderment.
There you have it. Another perfectly imperfect start to the day, and another golden opportunity to be profoundly grateful for all the beautiful, simple, noisy chaos that got in the way of my silence.
Namaste.