The Quiet Energy of Silence
The Indian spiritual teacher Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895–1986) once said: “Silence is a great benediction; it cleanses the brain, gives vitality to it, and this silence builds up great energy – not the energy of thought or of machines, but unpolluted energy, untouched by thought.”
Many of us live amid constant cacophony. Noise filters into our lives from every direction – sometimes welcome, sometimes not. (In my case often not!) We have become so used to having sound around us that silence can feel unsettling, even intimidating. And yet, as Krishnamurti suggests, it is only through allowing silence – turning off the devices that stream our music, stepping away from the relentless hum of machinery, and simply not speaking – that we create the space in which a quieter, deeper form of awareness can emerge.
Of course, the practice is far from easy. Quietening the mind is one of the greatest challenges we face. Meditation certainly helps and is, for many, a gateway to inner stillness. But I’m not convinced we can ever fully silence the endless parade of thoughts and images that arise. Perhaps His Holiness the Dalai Lama can; for the rest of us less skilled practitioners, it remains a noble but demanding endeavour. We can only keep trying. What meditation reliably offers me, though, is a softening—a stillness that slows my breath and brings me gently back to the present moment. I am, and always will be, a work in progress. In these particularly challenging times, it often feels like one step forward and two steps back. But a step is a step, and movement is still movement.
Simon and Garfunkel famously wrote about The Sound of Silence, capturing the cultural disconnection of the 1960s: “People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening.” Has so much really changed since then? I’m not entirely convinced.
There are countless places in the world I haven’t yet travelled, and I often wonder whether true silence exists anywhere at all. I imagine remote wildernesses, untouched landscapes, and solitary mountain ridges where the only sounds are the pull of a cold wind on the cheeks, the soft flutter of a prayer wheel, or the distant cry of a circling bird of prey. That, to me, is a perfect and acceptable kind of silence—nature’s own quiet, expansive presence. It’s the sort of silence that speaks directly to the soul and, as Krishnamurti said, “cleanses the brain”, restoring a sense of vitality and energy.
How about you? Do you welcome silence? Do you savour it, fear it, or simply long for more of it in your life?
