| Silence and Solitude
It's always there, the silence, echoing
beneath the clamor of what we call life
By Sam Keaveny
The voices are here again. They're echoing through my mind, bouncing off my skull, reverberating on my eardrums. It seems that they
never quit, droning on and on in a chaotic cacophony. They'll come from anywhere: in my bed, walking around, eating my supper, and going to the bathroom. For the most part, I just sort of tune them out, accept them as the static that comes with life here in this place. But it takes its toll, this aural assault, and there are times when I really doubt that there can be a time when all the voices are gone. I've known this time, perhaps more than some, and love it. It's in the sirens' call of
silence that I find my respite, and more.
No, I'm not some sort of psychopath. On the contrary, I'm just a typical person making my way through this loud world. But I'm hearing voices. That can't be right, can it? Well, take a minute and listen the next time you have the opportunity. Chances are, you'll realize that you're hearing them, too. So many people coming and going, running their yaps nonstop. Usually they speak of nonsense, blurting out some meaningless greeting, shouting
about one thing or another, or maybe just speaking to someone else (but speaking, nonetheless).
| EDITOR'S NOTE:
Sam Keaveny sent this essay to us last spring. I read it, liked it immediately and vowed to find a home for it in these pages. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to tell that to Sam. His parents contacted me with the
news of his untimely passing. They knew Sam had sent something to Silent Sports but did not have a copy, and asked if I still had it. It is with their permission we print it here. I never meet Sam Keaveny. All I know about him is what's in this essay and what his parents have told me. His family and friends have suffered a great loss and we extend
our heartfelt sympathy. We who did not know Sam have also suffered a loss, the loss of a wonderful, emerging voice. Greg Marr |
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And then there are the electronic voices. Televisions that stare and glare while an incessant buzz is emitted from speakers. Radios following you
down the road, thumping out a bass line or reminding you of the sorry state of the world.
We have machines, lots of machines, each with its own lovely voice adding to the chorus. Cars, fans, telephones, electric lighting, clacking keyboards, and on and on. Each of these has found its way into my head and, I'd bet, into yours as well. White noise we call it, as if it's something light and harmless. The problem is unless one makes a point of it, it's
very difficult to imagine life without such distraction, without this noise.
Fortunately, I've experienced that fleeting phenomena that we typically refer to as "silence." And it is in this soundscape that I came to value something that is even less available to a traveler on the busy highway of life. This is solitude. It's a scary place for some, a state of mind that has been devalued and destroyed by this blessing that we call civilization.
We're not supposed to be alone, a loner, or lonely. Yes, other people are there for you, they'll help you, keep you happy, keep you busy. Being by yourself is terrifying; who would want to face the world without a companion?
Now, I don't mean to say that other people are just so much noise (although a lot of times they are, and you know it), but this state of mind
detracts us from something equally important. What about my time? When do I get to experience the world, my thoughts, without something or someone else buzzing around my ear? It's not easy, and in order to find this place, I had to leave the comforts of the life that I know here. I've found solitude in times and places where the machines have not gone: lakes, the Arctic Barrens, or on an elusive peak. Here, silence still rules.
But Sam, why solitude? What does that do for someone? For me, it's a moment to open my consciousness, to see how I've constructed my world, and to try to make it better. Solitude for me is a break, and not just in the sense of time off. It is a break, a crack, a fissure in the world of consciousness. What this solitude does is to present an opportunity to step outside the constructs of "reality" and try to better understand my understanding of the world.
Solitude: solace – or perhaps solip-sism. The difference between the two is minute, but without some gap, without some break, we're delegated to the latter. As I step into that space where I hear nothing, where experience is directly available to me, possibility opens up and I begin to let go. The voices fade away, from without and from within, and soon I find myself faced with a void. Here I rejoice, for that space is my
solitude, and although daunting at times, it is in this space that I find myself.
For some sadistic reason, solitude and misery have gone hand in hand for me. The best example of this was a certain afternoon in the Arctic summer, although one could hardly call it summer. Travel was out of the question; the waves pounding the shore were far too menacing to consider even trying to get into a canoe,
much less make any headway. It was all our group could do to keep our tents from blowing away; eventually we huddled under our canoes, trying to stay dry and out of the wind. After hours of this discomfort, however, a good stretch was necessary, and one by one people would venture out of our protective cocoons. It wasn't a full-on storm, just bleak, gray clouds swept across the sky by the powerful
winds, with nothing to stop them for hundreds of miles. There was just enough rain to keep everything wet, damp and miserable, without the satisfaction of an actual downpour. Between the wind, the rain and the powerlessness of being at the mercy of the elements, every one of us did his best to not be vulnerable and, in doing so, we were totally separated.
It was in this state that I decided to take a little walk. Absurd though it seemed, I had to do something to
protect my sanity. Without trees or landmarks to gauge the distance, I headed for the closest hill. It seemed a stone's throw away, and it stayed that distance for longer than I anticipated. I reached the top battered and weary, fighting to simply keep from being blown over by the wind. I found a boulder to rest against, and in its lee, a space in which solitude came to me. I was surrounded by absolute nothingness. The leaden
expanse of sky was mirrored by the granite tundra below me. The occasional lake was churned into a white-capped reminder that I was stuck, and there was nothing I could do about it. However, as the misty rain soaked through my jacket and the wind rolled around the rocks, I paused.
Strange things happen when you least expect them. The last place that I thought that I'd find a sense of
peace was shivering cold, beaten down, sitting in the rain in the middle of nowhere. But it was at this time that I needed to stop and to just look around. In one word, the conditions were extreme. Some part of me recognized that I had lost touch with calm, and that I desperately had to find it. As I watched the heavy clouds, the sheets of mist, and listened to the whistling gale, I was suddenly aware of something that I hadn't
noticed before. Permeating the world that I was fighting was a singular presence; it was above, beneath and within all of the forces bringing me to rest. I listened closer and realized that what I couldn't hear was silence. This emptiness was not something to be feared; rather, it was an inviting lack. As I stepped into that void, I found that for the first time I could just be. Yes, I was alone, but I was alone with myself, and alone
with the world. I was stripped to the essential me, intimately connected to the wonder of life. What I had seen before as ugly, as menacing, took on an overwhelming beauty. I sat there, still shivering, still wet, but most importantly, still.
The storm passed, and the next day we continued on our journey. Soon, I was back in a city, engulfed in the business of daily life. It is here that I am now. As I step through my day, I have a million concerns, each
calling for my attention, each shouting over the other. Like you, I have to get the bills paid. Like you, I try to find time to spend with those that I love, and those that I simply have to see. I have schedules, I have deadlines, and (as you can probably understand) I have no time to keep either. Here, the notion of solitude seems so foreign, but it is here that it is needed most. In the face of this adversity, I would invite you to take
the time to listen to that which you cannot hear. It is always there, the silence, echoing beneath the clamor of what we call life. It can be intimidatingly deafening; let it be. As it washed your consciousness clean, try to answer that quiet call to be alone. Then, and only then, can you join in the noiseless symphony of solitude. Singing my solo allows me to find a harmonious place to be in the world. Hopefully, I'll find you singing along with me. A NOTE FROM SAM KEAVENY'S FAMILY
Sam Keaveny enjoyed the silent sports of canoeing, kayaking, cycling, climbing, running, hiking and cross country skiing. By 22 years of age his adventures had taken him on several month-long canoe trips in northern Canada, including the Caribou and the Kazan rivers, canoeing in the Everglades, hiking in Texas and Utah, and backpacking in Hawaii and Tibet and throughout southern China. He
enjoyed Silent Sports as a source of information and inspiration. He had submitted this essay for publication in May and died, suddenly, a month later while preparing for a canoe trip down the Seal River. It is the wish of his family and friends that his voice continue to be heard singing solo … in harmony. — Jan Keaveny (mother of Sam)
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