This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
This past fall I have been taking — SQUIRREL! — a mindfulness class at Red Butte Garden, because — MORE SQUIRRELS! — as you may have noticed — OH MY GOSH THERE ARE SO MANY SQUIRRELS EVERYWHERE I LOOK! — I have a hard time focusing on one thing.
SQUIRRELSQUIRRELSQUIRRELSQUIRRELSQUIRRELSQUIRREL
#squirrel
I've always been bad this way. I was that kid who touched down for a minute, only to take flight again while leaving yet another mess behind me.
I thought I'd get better when I grew up. And maybe I did for a little while because I never accidentally lost any of our kids at Knotts Berry Farm, unlike my own parents!
(Memo to Mom and Dad: Don't worry you guys! I'm over it!)
But suddenly I can't hold a single thought in my head anymore. Why? Because I'm always trying to hold four or five — even six! — thoughts in my head at the same time. And (squirrel!) it's not working for me.
So that's why I signed up for the mindfulness class (mindfulnessutah.com) taught by the lovely Vicki Overfelt.
Among other things, the class introduces practices designed to help you focus and be more present in the moment. One of these practices is "silence." As in a full day of it.
No talking.
Just silence.
For hours.
We were scheduled to meet as a class on a Saturday from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. During that time we were to remain silent as our instructors led us in a series of meditations.
OK. The idea of being quiet for seven straight hours made me nervous. Extremely nervous. I am never quiet for seven hours. Not even when I'm sleeping. Could I really be still? Or would words eventually stage a prison break and escape from my mouth while I stood by like a flat-footed warden?
But guess what. I did it!
The most noise I made was opening a bag of potato chips for lunch, which (as it turns out) is about the noisiest thing you can do in a room full of quiet. Eating potato chips in a room full of quiet is also noisy. You feel like your chewing sounds are ricocheting off the walls.
But that's not the point.
The point is that I realized how very unquiet our normal lives really are. Noise comes at us from all directions. From the people we know and don't know. From the TV and the radio. From the handheld devices we use simultaneously to listen to music or podcasts while shutting out the rest of the world.
I'm not saying sound is a bad thing. I'd hate it if I couldn't chat with friends or listen to music or hear a game called over the radio or eavesdrop on strangers whose conversations intrigue me. (I remember following two elderly women down an escalator who were clinging onto one another. "Don't fall and break your leg before Christmas," one said to the other, the clear implication being that breaking her leg after Christmas would be OK.)
What I am saying is that it felt good to be silent for a day. The constant, chaotic noise of daily life can be overwhelming. Sometimes you even feel like you're in danger of losing your footing and being dragged underwater by a tidal wave of words.
My takeaway from the experience?
It's important to be still. To be quiet. To give yourself enough space to focus on the sound of a human heart — your heart — beating beneath all of our collective noise.