Linda Weltner: Uplifted by the Wings of Silence

Uplifted by the Wings of Silence
Linda Weltner
Ever So Humble Column
Boston Globe
Aug. 29, 1996

The brochure for the kayaking trip my husband and I just took in Alaska read, “We move through the ‘outer’ wilderness by kayak, paying close attention to the coastal marine and forest ecosystems that surround us as we go. But we also embark upon another kind of ‘inside passage,’ one that leads deep into the silence of the soul.” That’s the part that hooked me. My monkey of a mind rarely shuts up. I’ve meditated at times, but something willful inside me resists quiet and craves stimulation. The idea of being cut off from all distractions for a week and expected to be silent for long periods of time was both alluring and frightening.

Our kayaks drift in silence up an estuary, floating on the backs of the salmon swimming in great numbers under us. All around us, fish leap into the air, testing their strength, then falling back with a distinctive splash. Drops of rain hit the surface of the water like drumsticks, creating a jazzy, but soothing rhythm. I hear the wind streaming far above the trees, the high-pitched cry of an eagle, the intake of our breaths as a black bear emerges on shore. In addition to meditating twice a day, we spent time paddling in silence, becoming for the moment our observing senses. Our guides Kurt and Lori, who were gifted naturalists, would point out a seal or an eagle’s nest, but otherwise we each traveled in our own zone of heightened awareness – becoming the thrust of the paddle, the glide across water, the damp touch of fog, our resistance to the wind. Back home again, I can still see brilliant images from these periods of silence, but I also recall that heading back to camp, engrossed in our conversations, it seems I was deaf and blind to my surroundings. As inhabitants of the 20th century , we assume the scientific attitude, viewing the disparate parts of the world as separate and different from ourselves, but in the silence, boundaries ease and blur. One evening, after watching the sun set, I closed my eyes and saw it again against my eyelids, a shining disc which had entered my body and lodged there, becoming part of me. In sipping water we’d filtered from a stream, I was conscious of drinking rain which had seeped though roots and flowed past salmon and over volcanic rock to quench my thirst. It entered my cells in its endless journey, making me a part, not apart from the world around me.

We eat breakfast in silence, adding dried cranberries, chopped figs, coconut, almonds, and brown sugar to hot cereal. We chew and swallow, taste the textures, feel our hunger being satisfied. We are relaxed, with nothing to do but eat and enjoy. It’s commonly considered rude to keep silent in the company of others, but voluntary silence connects rather than distances you from others whose individual differences temporarily fade away, creating a shared feeling of harmony and comfort.

This is what I loved about our silent time together: I didn’t waste any valuable energy thinking about what to say. Without the pressure to be funny or insightful, I was able to experience unfolding events without judging or categorizing them. Later I realized that the few thoughts I was tempted to share weren’t worth repeating. With the silence, though, came the awareness that hunters would come and shoot the bears which seemed such living miracles to me, and kill the geese, whose cries were a symphony at dawn. There was also the pain of knowing we were blazing the way for the hordes of travelers who will inevitably follow in our tracks. By trip’s end, we could see the ways our entering untamed places altered them. We could no longer avoid the fact that we were not only part of nature, but also the “other,” the destroyers.

One afternoon I sat on a rock by the water, admiring the mist falling like a bridal veil over a nearby mountain. After a while the utter stillness of the place seemed too intense, almost oppressive. Perhaps God mistakenly created a little too much quiet, I thought, until I heard the call of a raven. Its low hoarse cry brought tears to my eyes. It was the welcome voice of a fellow creature. “Ah, now I know why birds sing,” I thought, filled to the brim with gratitude for the silence out of which pours each day’s song of creation.