The View from Here:
Silence as my Teacher
Lynne K. Fukuda
Instructor, Institute of Biology, Hawaii Pacific University
lfukuda@hawaii.edu
And yet, religious monks and gurus prescribe silence as a learning tool. We cannot absorb our world completely without the restful sanctuary of silence--the silence of nature, the silence of a religious place, the silence of being alone in the house without company except for the gentle presence of a furry pet.
As a child I spent brief breaks on the north shore of the island of Kauai, where there was no electricity in the area until the early sixties, no television, and no malls. My cousins and I lived each day surrounded by silence. We woke to the calls of birds and the whisper of the wind in the trees. Off in the distance, we heard the roaring surf that changed in intensity each passing day. We rose much too early because our grandparents were like chickens, up before the sun; they clattered in the kitchen while they ate their breakfast of papaya halves, black coffee, and toast with guava jelly. Grandma would soon be in the garden and sweeping the walk. Grandpa would be off to fish or to see the condition of the waves. Sometimes he puttered around his subsistence garden, harvesting fruits and vegetables.
My cousins and I rubbed our eyes, disturbed from our sleep, then prepared a simple breakfast. My older cousin Roger's hair was always mussed; his dark curls falling over his thick glasses. My younger cousin, Tom, plopped himself down on the seat at the kitchen table and started to eat. I never had an appetite because I was never a breakfast person, but I sipped some juice, and munched on some cake or pie.
"Should we go off to see how the surf is?" Roger said.
We all nodded in agreement, including my other cousin Joyce, who was only two years younger than I. We were less capable of country activities and just went along for the ride. Although I could fish very well, I could not even put the fishhook onto my line. Although I snorkeled, I was not a good swimmer. But it did not matter a bit, for my other cousins indulged me, treating Joyce and I like princesses. We enjoyed their silent company as we chattered in our own cheerful ways.
The four of us sometimes sat on the beach, mesmerized by the surf. Often, our departure would finally start when Roger would suddenly say (after a few hours of not uttering a word), "I'm hungry. Let's go home to eat."
We fished mostly in silence, out of necessity, for our voices scared the fish away. "Come here," Tom, said, pointing to a better fishing spot in the reef. I nodded and placed my bait.
When we swam, we laughed and played, but there was no real conversation, just one-word sentences. Sometimes, Roger and Tom would just make grunting noises. I was usually very quiet.
In the house, we read stacks of comic books, played solitaire, lounged on the porch, and stared out at the beautiful hillside and garden. Sometimes we went to look for fruit or shellfish. "We'll go out to get some guavas," Roger would say.
We learned in silence. Nature spoke to
us of her wonders. We were mesmerized by her beauty and wisdom. Each day
we learned a lesson, sharing at mealtimes what we had seen or heard. We
shared our thoughts quietly, each taking a turn, each digesting what we
believed we had learned.
My grandparents were also silent folk. I
followed my grandmother as she went about her daily chores. I assisted
her in cooking, gardening, and cleaning. She did things much differently
than my mother, for she had worked on a farm, looked after her in-laws,
and raised five children. She was quiet and patient. I do not recall a
word of complaint when she did her work, although she did grumble sometimes
about the messes her grandchildren left behind. I knew she thought constantly
about her loved ones, and about ideas for new recipes, new craft projects,
and gardening. She did not read as I did, nor did she watch TV, but she
listened to the radio; she often had it on early in the morning and sometimes
in the afternoons while she worked in the kitchen.
My grandparents lived in a remote part of
Kauai that, in the old days, had only a few cars that passed their house.
The neighbors were a mile down the road and were native Hawaiian subsistence
farmers who were also silent people. I would see them on the reef early
in the mornings, but soon they would quietly retreat to their own part
of the shore and disappear, presumably going home. The country folk were
not lonely. Once or twice a month, a few guests drove up to the house
and stayed for a few days. Having had their fill of guests, my grandparents
would sigh in relief when their guests left--until another craving for
human company passed over them.
I loved silence. I could be alone. My grandparents
and my cousins and I were together in one place, but alone in our silences.
We had privacy that we lacked when we were at home with our parents. I
heard the ticking of the clock and the rustle of natural activity outside,
and yet, I was frightened by the noises of nature at night: the burping
sound of the frogs, the mysterious rustle of some creature in the pitch-black,
and the splashes of the carp in the fishpond. The ocean would also sound
menacing at night, and on rainy nights, the raindrops were like the drumming
of monstrous fingers on our roof.
When I spent part of my childhood in Europe,
I grew to love the silence in the cathedrals. They were my sanctuary from
the chaotic noises of the city. The air was black with soot and exhaust,
the blare of mopeds and vehicles. It vibrated with the noise of people
who shouted louder above the confusion. The whir of tires on the cobblestones
was soothing and disturbing. I needed to be alone. In the cool, semi-darkness
of the church, I found my retreat. I felt safe on the wooden pews and
in the halls that were lined with stone. It was my forest, where the chanting
of the priest and the singing of the choir and the music from the pipe
organ sounded like the sounds of nature. There were echoes within, like
the ghosts of past visitors. I heard the voice of kindly angels singing.
I heard a voice that spoke of forgiveness and love. When I emptied my
mind, I became more aware of what was around me. It was more than just
the physical or social environment--it was a spiritual environment as
well.
When I grew up, I spent four days at a time
on a desert island in the north-western Hawaiian Islands. I was again
surrounded by the silence of nature which was really the voice of nature.
There were no human sounds to interrupt my thoughts. The gaggle of large
seabirds, the grunts of the monk seals, and the pounding of the surf were
not distractions. I was lulled into white space. My mind became empty
of all worldly concerns, and I began at first to be disoriented, distressed
that I did not have my noise-making tools, except for a CB radio that
acted as a telephone on the atoll. But I settled down again, aware of
the rhythms of nature, heard the call of animals and the rush of the sea.
I wrote. I sketched and painted watercolors as I did when I was a child.
I composed photos in the way I could never reproduce even if I went back
there again. I was alone. It was when I was alone that I could make my
own decisions. It was in silence that I heard the voice of wisdom guide
me. Nature guided me and helped me reflect and contemplate.
I hope that schoolchildren will someday
have that leisure when they do not have to read and write, listen to instructions,
be disciplined by a voice, and work doggedly at the computer. I wish they
could lie down in a room like a forest, semi-dark and silent, to think
on what they had learned that day.
I cope with the lack of privacy and silence
in my life. I go off into my own world of writing where the only voice
I can hear is my own. Sometimes I neglect to eat or to sleep, but I am
nourished by the richness of the silent voices. When my nephews were infants
and toddlers, I did not speak to them as a mother would. I held them close,
guiding them, and let them see the world for themselves. I worked silently
besides them in the garden, and the only time I spoke was to warn them
of danger or to tell them stories. My nephews grew up with large imaginations.
They still draw and paint, and now they create stories. They are quiet
little men, smiling with happy thoughts. And like my primate friends,
we sit close to one another, sharing silent company, grunting once in
a while to share some food.
On my trip to the Andes, my guide stopped
the car to let us see some alpaca sweaters that the Inca people in the
mountains knitted for sale. Once the car engine stopped, there was only
an echo of silence. My mother and I walked eagerly to look at the view
and to greet the Incas, We were afraid to break the peace. We were respectful
of the quiet group of women who, although they sat close to the roadside,
were far away from us. All at once, I heard a sound of brushing. I squinted
to see that one of the women had a sweater she was carefully stroking.
"They are so far away," I said
to my mother almost in a whisper, "And still we can hear them brushing
the sweater."
"Yes," she said in a low voice.
"The air is pure of human noises. And they are such quiet people."
I suppose it was not merely high-altitude
that made it hard for any human to breathe and to talk. Even their infants
barely cried, and the mothers caressed them, keeping them close to their
bodies, for it was bone-chilling cold. People there clung to each other
for comfort, learning from gestures and from touch the ways of their culture.
They were highly intelligent and creative people. They did not waste time
cranking out gibberish, but instead spent their silent hours painting,
carving, weaving and doing needlework.
A professor, who was a student of philosophy,
told me how much he loved bamboo forests in the hills above Tantalus.
"Why?" I asked him, curious that
he was willing to make the hard hike up the hill just to see common bamboo
groves when he could see them at lower elevations in gardens.
"I crave the solitude," he replied.
"I like to go up there to meditate. There is nothing as wonderful
as being alone and the only sound you hear is the sound of the wind passing
through the bamboo grove, the bamboo hitting one another like a soft version
of the Gamelan music."
"Yes," I nodded. "I, too,
can hear the silence, and what a beautiful sound that is."
Like the silences in the classic Russian
films, where only the sounds of the wind in the grass in late summer's
twilight fills the screen, my silences are filled with richness. My mind
is at rest and fertile for creative endeavor. The wind passes through
the forests of my mind, the sound that only I can hear. When I hear it,
I am able to discern the voices of the entire world.
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