Lorna Dowell and Charlotte Gann talk about balancing space and quiet with joining in.
Charlotte Gann: Hi Lorna. You and I have fallen lightly into conversation lately about the space opened up by Quiet. (And I use a capital Q here because I think I’m thinking of something larger and more deliberate than ‘quiet’!) How we both habitually yearn for this, when times are busy, and yet, when it arrives, how it can be disquietening(!): how we can find ourselves feeling lost as quiet opens around us…
What is it about quiet – that we run towards, and run from?
ps disquietening sounds right to me, but should the word be disquieting?
Lorna Dowell: That’s a really appropriate term ‘disquietening quiet’ (even my autocorrect is disquietened by that!). I prefer it to the more technically correct disquieting. I wonder why? Maybe it’s because I see or hear an echo of the word ‘listening’?
I love that the one word contains both the quiet and the paradox that’s core to it. In a way, there’s nothing quiet about this quiet that descends when the busyness stops.
CG: No! I remember being struck when I first noticed that the words SILENT and LISTEN are anagrams of each other…
LD: So they are! (A silent code embedded in each word?)
It puts me in mind of the Simon and Garfunkel song, ‘The Sound of Silence’, in which the darkness speaks to him through visions that only come through in the quiet (the not-so-silent silence):
Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
The busyness is like the bright lights or a noise that distracts from that dark. The quiet will often bring me back to myself, which I instinctively know is where I need to be. But depending on where I am in my life – which also relates to what’s been going on in those busy times – it may not be an easy or comforting place in which to be. It can feel lonely at times. But I can feel very lonely and lost in the busyness, too. Perhaps this is where loneliness and solitude can get confused.
CG: Yes, absolutely. I think there’s also a value judgement imposed externally? I mean, just, culturally that we collectively ‘approve’ of busyness. Quiet can seem lazy or unadventurous? Also – interpreted as a ‘rejection’ of, or by, others. I struggle making my peace with this, at times.
LD: That is so true! And, of course, it can be very seductive being ‘out there’, feeling involved – getting affirmation, even confirmation that you exist, by keeping ‘busy’. Doing something with others, playing our part, can be very reassuring. I like having the sense of purpose mapped out for me. Or at least, part of me thinks that I do. But I don’t want to be chained down by it either. (What a slippery thing this subject is! No wonder I feel so perverse.)
And, coming back to your wonderful term, I don’t always find the quiet disquietening: sometimes it feels very light, a kind of balm. If I’m craving the solitude, it doesn’t feel like loneliness in the least. It’s more like having welcome space in which to breathe; in which to create.
CG: Yes – how does this all relate to our ‘creativity’. Our ability to step back or out of the world in order to find our own words…? However we build in that time – writing early mornings, evenings – whatever our schedule otherwise allows, and at different stages of our lives – what’s possible.
I know it’s vital to me – to be quiet. I did an exercise called ‘Core Process’ a few years ago – the end result is a two word (verb and noun) combination that supposedly sums up something essential to one’s individual life practice or purpose. Mine came out quite simply. And the two words – which surprised me, as I thought they might be more galvanising in some way – were Trusting Quiet.
I’ve found this a useful touchstone since, at times of decision and confusion around decisions. That perhaps it is quite right for me to choose the quieter option. Perhaps the internal and at times external judgement that being out there, saying yes, doing-doing-doing isn’t necessarily always right.
Certainly, I wouldn’t have produced the (poetry) work I have without saying No to some other things over the last fifteen years. And I’m glad I did.
LD: Yes, and perhaps paradoxically, it’s not just about choosing the quieter option but needing the quiet in which to make a choice – to listen to our intuition. For me, that becomes even harder the longer the noise/busyness has been going on. Then the quiet is such a contrast, so emphasised, it can even feel a bit alien. It’s as if in becoming estranged from the quiet, I’ve disconnected from something inside.
CG: Ah, that’s so interesting. Yes.
And I certainly think, for me, there needs to be a settling down period. I need to slow down internally, breathe into the space, maybe grow to trust it? I need to calm my thoughts. And then (only then), slowly, maybe, I can start to write. As I begin to reconnect in a much deeper way to myself.
LD: I can really relate to that almost physical sense of going into the space. At times like this, I find facing the quiet is like being confronted by the blank page: both liberating and daunting at the same time. This is regardless of whether I’m picking up on a writing project (redrafting, editing) or just embarking on one; regardless, even, of whether I’m using the time to write.
I’m very aware of creativity in the widest sense: the need we have to create, not just pieces of work but our own lives. Without the distractions of busyness, we have no excuse not to get on with all the things we thought or said we wanted to do if we had time. We’ve created the space; now, even if we don’t have to DO anything, we have to BE in it.
CG: I like that distinction between doing and being in a ‘space’. As I get older (and older!), inevitably I’m struck by how, with the best luck in the world, our adult lives consist of only a handful of decades. The decisions we make about where we put our energy are enormous: we can’t do everything.
I’m also curious about that relationship between embracing solitude in which to be (and perhaps to be creative) and the necessary inclusion and connection with others that are central to life, survival, development, work, family, contributing more broadly. Certainly I find that balance hard at times to strike.
LD: So do I. It feels like a contradiction at times: the need for company – to connect with others, and the need to be alone – to connect with myself.
Just when I think I’ve struck it right, something will send it off kilter again. Usually, it’s external events, but not always. Sometimes it will be because I’ve reacted to a period of intense busyness by withdrawing too much.
CG: Yes, I think I do that too. At least, at times, I know I’ve felt myself withdrawing from the fray and frustration of ‘others’. And I can feel numb and blank, as well as bruised and tired – I think I’ve even withdrawn from myself.
So, how do you make your peace with all this?
LD: For me, the writing is core to the connection with self, and both reside in that quiet space. But without the connection to others, to loved ones and friends, that grounding in the external world (and, yes, the busyness), the quiet space could become very oppressive and, ironically, a source of disconnection itself. Not just from others, but even myself!
CG: Indeed. And just how much room I try to make for quiet is an ongoing and ever evolving question. It’s not a simple right or wrong answer, for me.
Spending time with others, especially those I love, feels like the most precious of all investments – alongside trusting quiet, and connecting with myself, to try to write. Slices of guilt-free quiet, when they arrive, feel to me the greatest luxury this life can afford!
Lorna, thank you so much. I’ve really appreciated this ‘space’ to focus on quiet.