What becomes audible when life goes quiet?

I’m writing this from the Highlands of Scotland, where the first thing that has really struck me is the quiet.

There is very little traffic noise, no constant hum of activity and far fewer sounds competing for my attention. At first, the silence feels almost startling.

Then, gradually, you begin to realise that it isn’t silent at all.

There is the wind moving through the trees. Water running over stones. A bird calling from much farther away than you would normally be able to hear. The sound of your own footsteps, your breathing and—occasionally—your waterproof jacket rustling loudly enough to make you feel like the noisiest person in Scotland.

It has reminded me that silence is rarely an absence of sound.

It is space, and when there is more space, we can hear more clearly.

This is one of the reasons sound can affect us so deeply. A single tone from a singing bowl can immediately draw our attention because it emerges from quiet, changes and then gradually disappears back into quiet again.

The silence around the sound is part of the experience. Without the pauses, sound can become overwhelming. Without the sound, we may never fully notice the quiet.

The same is true in yoga.

Movement becomes more meaningful when we pause long enough to feel its effects. A breath becomes more noticeable when we stop trying to control it. Savasana becomes more than simply lying down when we allow your body time to absorb what has happened during the practice.

We often think that something needs to be happening for something useful to be taking place.

Yet some of the most important changes happen in the spaces between things: between one movement and the next, between the inhale and the exhale, and between one sound and another.

A small listening practice for this week

Take two minutes to sit somewhere without adding any extra sound.

You don’t need perfect silence. Simply listen.

First, notice the sounds furthest away.

Then notice the sounds closer to you.

Finally, notice the sounds within you: your breathing, swallowing, heartbeat or the small movements your body makes as you sit.

There is nothing you need to achieve.

The practice is simply to notice how much becomes available when you stop filling the space.

For now, I’m going to return to listening to the Highlands—and trying not to disrupt the peace with my waterproof coat.