The Virtues of Silence

            Among spiritual practitioners silence is often considered a virtue. When I was a hippy, I occasionally took a vow of silence for a day, just to see how it would affect me. When I was in Atlanta recently for my sister's memorial service, it was not spiritual motivation but laryngitis that enforced silence on me, and not for a day but for most of the week.

            On the flight to Atlanta, I caught a cold that settled into laryngitis. I thought at first I could whisper my eulogy into the microphone at the service, but by that time, I could barely croak even a whisper. My brother read my piece for me. He read beautifully, and, listening, I let the tears flow down my face as I wouldn't have done if I had read the piece myself.

            Afterwards, at the reception, I whispered hoarsely how glad I was to see so and so until I met a speech therapist, a friend of my sister, who told me that the cure for laryngitis was not to speak at all, not even in whispers. I realized that that was true, since by now my whispers, too, were vanishing. After that I smiled and hugged people and touched my lips and shook my head in explanation, but I didn't attempt to say another word for four days.

            For the rest of the week I was but a silent participant at family gatherings. But how much does one participate when one can't talk? I had previously sometimes thought I contributed little to conversation when I was with my siblings, but now it was remarkable how frequently I wanted to interject an opinion or a thought. Sometimes I tried writing down a thought, but by the time I finished expressing it on paper, the conversation had moved on without me.

            Maybe what I had to say wasn't that important, after all.

            A few years from now, when my siblings discuss the family gatherings during that week, they'll say to each other, "Wasn't Diana there? I thought she was, but I don't remember her." I moved among them like a silent ghost.

            After four days of complete silence, I started using my voice, but as little as possible. When I had to say something, I would explain in a whisper that I had laryngitis and then whisper my request: "Decaf latte, please." "What size?" the barista would whisper back. Once when I tried writing down my question, the person to whom it was addressed took the pen in hand to write an answer back.

            Isn't this curious behavior? Do we limp when we see someone on crutches? Do we close our eyes when we're around the blind? Why is laryngitis different?
            Maybe because silence is a virtue. Maybe, when we automatically lower our voices around someone with laryngitis, we're taking advantage of an opportunity to learn the benefits of quiet. Maybe we discover how unnecessary so much of our talk is, after all. "There are many fine things," Thoreau tells us, "which we cannot say if we have to shout."