This first “splinter of wisdom” was spoken to me when I was a minister at Church of the Crossroads in Honolulu. More than half of my congregation there were Japanese-American. This bit of wisdom came to me from a Caucasian woman, but one who had been raised in Japan. She understood Japanese culture in ways that I did not, and never would.
What she said to me was, “Silence is also a form of participation.” She certainly exemplified that. Deeply thoughtful, engaged, but slow to speak. It may be that at the time I was expressing some frustration about lack of feedback or apparent engagement. Or maybe I had only one idea of what participation meant. To me, it meant you talked. You said things. You aired your views, etc.
There is a stereotype in Hawaii of “the loud-mouthed haole,” that is, a white person (haole) who talks a lot and does so at high decibels. Kind of like the tourists from an English-speaking country who, when they can’t get through in English to a non-English speaker, repeat themselves, only way louder.
I don’t think I was a “loud-mouthed haole,” but I also didn’t quite know what to make of people who sat attentively in a meeting or class, who appeared engaged, who maybe even took notes, but who rarely spoke. What’s up with that?
She shared her wisdom almost offhandedly, certainly not as a judgment or rebuke. Just an observation. “Silence is also a form of participation.”
That struck me. It was a kind of an “aha” moment. And obviously, it stayed with me. I thought it was beautiful. And yet, still a little perplexing. Really? You can be participating and yet not talking, even silent? How does that work?
There are, of course, many different kinds of silence, some of them unpleasant. Cold silence. Angry silence. The kind of silence where you are giving a loud message, but without words. Alas, I’ve been pretty good at that — angry silence — at times in my life. There is awkward silence. Then there is disengaged silence or bored silence, I-couldn’t-care-less silence. Sometimes it is an overwhelmed silence. Something has been so powerful we have no words. But this was none of those.
It was attentive, participating, silence. And I needed to learn to recognize and value it.
I bring her words up now, because I wonder if we need a little more silence in our lives, fewer interruptions in our conversation, more spaces in which to reflect, to ponder before we speak — if we do speak. Maybe we could do more valuing of those who practice attentive silence, who don’t need to dominate or control a conversation to assert their presence or importance. One aspect of a good friendship or an intimate relationship is that you can be silent together and it’s okay, even great.
“Silence is also a form of participation.”
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Writing as the family member most likely to grab the virtual mic and hold forth at length on anything anytime anywhere and to anyone within earshot, it may seem surprising that I heartily agree that silence is a good and necessary practice in two-way communication.
Allowing time to absorb the message, consideration of the messenger, and at times discerning a meta-message or hidden purpose in why it is being delivered, are all components of “active listening “.
In Rev. Robinson’s instance, I imagine that his congregation’s members may have remained silent as they sized him up — was he really a “loud-mouthed Haole “ stereotype or someone who had something important to impart? How did his words fit into the framework of the congregational experience and understanding, and so on.
In my family there was a cliche’ applied to people who were often silent and seemingly unaware of their surroundings: “Still waters run deep”. Put another way, not all currents (of water or thoughts/consciousness) can be felt on the surface — they may indeed be moving at a profound level, undetected.
Wisdom from Japan illustrating the practice of silence:
The pupils of the Tendai school used to study meditation before Zen entered Japan. Four of them who were intimate friends promised one another to observe seven days of silence.
On the first day all were silent. Their meditation had begun auspiciously, but when night came and the oil lamps were growing dim one of the pupils could not help exclaiming to a servant: “Fix those lamps.”
The second pupil was surprised to hear the first one talk. “We are not supposed to say a word,” he remarked.
“You two are stupid. Why did you talk?” asked the third.
“I am the only one who has not talked,” concluded the fourth pupil.