Into the desert: Silence

For centuries men and women have made the journey into the desert as part of an intentional spiritual quest – a quest for God. Australians have long held the dream of the quest into the outback, almost as part of one’s Australian obligation. It has long held mythical status in the Australian psyche. Having returned from 14 weeks of travelling through some of the most remote parts of this vast continent, there have been perspectives and impressions which have been carried and shaped through that time.
The first experience of the outback is one that has lasted and is perhaps its deepest – the silence. From the time we first stopped for lunch at Burra in the Flinders Ranges, and settled down to bed at night at Rawnsley Park, the sounds of silence have reverberated through my mind. It assails one’s senses. I can readily recall the first sounds echoing through my ears as we spent those first moments in bed before sleeping. I listened to a dull, rhythmic thudding… which turned out to be my own pulse – the blood rushing through my veins. It took some time for this pulsating to dissipate to the point where the silence itself took on a new shape, where I could feel comfortable with its emptiness and hear its unique sounds above those of my own heartbeat.
This inner noise was not evident in the city, and was demonstrated in the initial volume of our voices, which suddenly seemed to boom through the vacant spaces. In a caravan park this meant that conversations which would normally be contained within the family confines would easily be heard from much further distances. The city noise not only deafened me to my own sounds, but encouraged a more vociferous expression, one which sounded strangely aggressive in the vast expanses.
What does this do for my own spirituality? How can I connect with another when I am having trouble connecting with my own self? How can I hear the promptings of the Spirit when the normal sounds of the creation are drowned out by my own activity? Elijah spoke of God’s voice as “the sound of a thin silence”… I have been awakened to a new form of deafness, where certain sounds are overshadowed by others. Where the voice of God in the midst of all this?
I also wonder at the other sounds that are extinguished: words of encouragement which would keep me striving… cries of pain and anguish from others… calls for help… words of guidance and direction. This deafness is not selective… or is it?
As we have returned to the city, I have been conscious of my own noise – and of the things which drown out other sounds. A commitment to intentional stillness – one which minimises my own contribution in order to connect with others – has been incorporated into my daily practice. It is not so much an emptying as a commitment to stillness, a place in which I am aware of my own imprint and alert to those which may have been in the shadow of my own.