Silence does not begin for me when the world outside becomes quiet. I can sit in a completely silent room and still notice how much is moving within me. Thoughts continue, the body holds on to tension, my perception jumps from one stimulus to the next, and energetically, too, much can still feel unsettled. Over the years, I have therefore come to understand that outer quiet is only a prerequisite for me. The real silence comes later, when my entire inner state begins to slow down.
When I consciously want to enter into silence, I first remove the external stimuli. My phone is not nearby, there is no music, and the computer and television remain switched off as well. I do not try to make the quiet artificially special. Most of the time, I simply sit on the sofa or on a chair. Sometimes I stand by an open window and look outside. I do not focus my gaze on anything in particular. I am not looking for an answer, nor am I trying to perceive anything special. I simply look and allow whatever is there to be there.
I often find the first few minutes especially interesting because they show me just how little inner stillness there actually is at the beginning. Thoughts continue, parts of the day resurface, something still wants to be done, answered or understood. The body also needs time to stop carrying the speed of what came before. I notice tensions that I was barely aware of earlier and become conscious of how much movement is still present throughout my whole system. At times, it feels to me as though thoughts, energy and perception are still turning in different directions.
In the past, I would probably have tried to change that state more quickly. Today, I am more inclined simply to let it happen. I do not force myself to become calm, nor do I try to interrupt my thoughts. I simply observe, without following every thought further and without immediately judging everything that appears. For me, that is an important difference. The moment I start believing that I have to be still, another goal has already appeared, and with it comes new tension.
After a while, something begins to change by itself. My body relaxes, my breathing finds a calmer rhythm, and my thoughts begin to lose some of their weight. They do not necessarily disappear completely, but they pass more easily. At the same time, I also perceive my energies as calmer. What had previously felt denser, more active or unsettled begins to feel more balanced. I have found for myself that I cannot speed up this transition. I can only create the conditions in which it becomes possible.
My perception changes as well. It becomes clearer for me, though not in the sense that I suddenly begin analysing more. In fact, the opposite happens. I need to explain less, and because of that I perceive more directly. When I stand by an open window, I hear the sounds outside more clearly and notice movement, light or trees without immediately turning them into anything. My surroundings are the same as before, but I meet them differently because less is competing for my attention within me.
For me, this is something essential about silence. It does not make the world emptier. Often, it makes it feel fuller, only in a different way. When my inner noise begins to subside, the things around me do not disappear; they come into clearer view. I become more aware of the space around me, my body, the temperature, sounds and also the mood I am in. It does not feel like withdrawing from life, but more like returning to something that had previously been covered over by too many stimuli.
I have also learned that silence is not the same every day. There are days when my body relaxes quickly and my thoughts become lighter quite soon. On other days, it takes longer. More movement remains within me and calm does not arrive as naturally. In the past, I might have seen this as the difference between a good experience and a bad one. Today, I am more interested in what is actually there. Restlessness, too, can become visible in silence without needing to disappear immediately.
For me, that is part of the honesty of the experience. Silence does not show only calm. At first, it often reveals what constant activity had kept out of sight. Thoughts, tensions, inner movements and sometimes a vague sense of unease become more noticeable when there is nothing left to cover them over. Only when I can sit with that for a while does something begin to reorder itself.
I usually do not notice the transition in a single moment. There is no point at which everything suddenly becomes silent. It happens gradually. The body lets something go, thoughts become more spaced out, and perception is given more room. At some point, I notice that I am no longer waiting for something to happen. I am simply sitting or standing there, and that is enough.
It is precisely this act of adding nothing that has changed my relationship with silence. I do not need music to create a particular state, guided words or a special atmosphere. For me, depth is more likely to emerge where there is less in the way. That does not mean any of those things are inherently distracting. I have simply noticed that true silence is something different for me. It begins where nothing more needs to be added from the outside.
When I get up again after such a period of time, my state usually feels different. My body is more relaxed, my thoughts are lighter, and my inner experience feels more ordered. The energy feels calmer too. I perceive myself more clearly and, at the same time, feel more open to my surroundings. It is not a spectacular experience, but something quiet that is difficult to hold on to.
Perhaps that is precisely why this form of silence still touches me so deeply. It asks nothing of me and promises me nothing either. I do not have to perform, understand or achieve anything within it. I can simply be there until whatever is still circling within me begins to slow down. And when I then stand by the open window and look outside, I often realise that the calm has not come because the world became silent. It has come because I stopped trying to fill it with something all the time.