Be Still

April 15, 2007 at 12:18 PM

The first time I can remember hearing anything like it was back in 1999 when I drove up the Al-Can highway with my friend Stephanie to spend my first winter in Alaska. That week of September, golden and clear, proved to be perfect for driving thousands of miles through Canadian wilderness. Stopping up toward the Yukon for our third night, we searched the darkness for a campground that seemed perfectly marked in our Milepost travel guide, yet didn’t exist anywhere near the supposed location. After following a gravel road for several miles, we found the site and pitched our tent quickly, if slightly deliriously. Thankful for the bed of musty brown leaves beneath me as I nestled into my bag, I breathed a contented sigh...

I listened. My ears strained to grasp something–-anything-–but all was silent. Not a leaf rustled, not a night critter chirped or squeaked, no cars, no refrigerator, no trickling of water interrupted. It was the purest, most completely isolated quiet I have ever heard. Though peaceful, the stillness was slightly unnerving. Several times during the night, I awoke and scratched at my ears just to make sure they were still working. The entire night passed in inky, ceaseless silence.

Often, my thoughts go back to that night, which has since taken on symbolic meaning. Silence captures the heart of unadorned existence, the essence of preexistence, and even the allusion of death. With the majority of my life wrapped in so many bustling activities, such a reverent silence stands out like a missed heartbeat.

I am a musician; my specialty is sound. I’ve spent most of my life pursuing all kinds of sounds: heavy sounds, bouncy sounds, projecting sounds, whispery sounds, and (of course) perfectly tuned sounds. Day in and day out, I try for different sounds and I preach to my students, “Listen! Listen, do you hear that? What do I have to do to get you to listen?”

Meanwhile, a soreness had begun to creep into my arm. It started last fall from traveling with my case. My elbow was sore. It grew, almost unnoticed, until I played in the pit orchestra this spring, when the soreness crept up into my shoulder. It took a couple of weeks of watching my fingers twitch uncontrollably and grow weak before I would finally admit I'd injured myself. Diagnosis: tendinitis. Treatment: ice, rest, and three weeks complete refrain from all activities.

Three weeks’ rest! Three weeks of nothing! Three weeks without knitting, drawing, practicing, baking, or otherwise creating! The thought absolutely frightened me. What then, with no distractions to occupy my day? What then? I was left there, all alone, with just me, myself, and my rampant mind. For the first time in many years, I fell silent. The dead space made me feel uncomfortable, then angry, then depressed. I wanted to do something–anything–yet many times during the day I found this awkward nothingness and had nothing to do. (I confess, I cheated sometimes, and rolled out croissants on Thursday and played jigs with Sarah on Saturday.)

When I sit still, I begin to wonder things, secret scary things, things we all come to debate in the deep of the night when we're all alone, when all is quiet. So what is it all worth, anyway? What am I worth? Am I an okay person, even though I’m physically fallible? What if I never get better? Am I valuable even if I can never lift my bow again, or bake, or run, or draw, or knit cool lacy things? Or will I wander aimlessly for the remainder of my days, forever burdened by unfulfilled dreams and ambitions?

This same aversion to silence won’t let me go to bed at night, since nighttime is the quiet time, the time to rest. But only in the prolonged rest do I finally hear the Still Small Voice:

Listen! Listen, do you hear that? What do I have to do to get you to listen? Your fears and anxieties are nagging you. Your personal demon shouts at you to keep striving or fail miserably and be cast down. The volume rises until it becomes difficult for you to even think straight. Your arms are begging for something inside to change. Now, be still for a time and listen.

In the stillness, I begin to remember I am already loved in my unadorned existence, even though I’ve convinced myself otherwise. Perhaps this is the root of the issue that, when embraced, will heal me from the inside out. I hope so. I really hope so. I have a lot of good things left to do.

From William Yap
Posted on April 15, 2007 at 2:05 PM

I've been feeling some pain in my right elbow since a few days ago. Gees.. I better take care!

All the best and speedy recovery to you.

From Albert Justice
Posted on April 15, 2007 at 4:30 PM

Get well Emily! "The Discoverers", by Daniel J Boorstin. It will likely take about three weeks to read and is a wonderful spin on history, not totally unlike Carl Sagan's "Dragons of Eden" in approach at least.

From janet griffiths
Posted on April 15, 2007 at 6:42 PM

Do you drink a lot of coffee?.I thought that I'd got tendinitis from riding my bike with my hand permanantly ready to brake and had elbow problems.It was ok when I played the violin but normal movements were quite painful.I reduced my coffee intake which was quite high because I was having trouble sleeping and bingo after a few days no more pain.This was after about a year of pain.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on April 16, 2007 at 3:53 AM

Janet, I think you're right about the necessity of a good night's sleep. I did cut back on caffeine and tried a couple of other things to promote better sleep, and every night that I sleep well makes it heal a little more. I also wonder about vitamin deficiencies. I started taking some supplements like vitamin D, potassium, calcium, and magnesium. Potassium pills are pretty much worthless, though. You may as well eat a potato instead.

From Tom Holzman
Posted on April 17, 2007 at 2:28 PM

Hope your recovery is speedy. I have tendinosis in my elbows (it never goes completely away but does not bother me much). At your age, you should have no problem. Meantime, listen to some of your favorite music and get George to give you some well-deserved TLC!

From Tom Holzman
Posted on April 17, 2007 at 2:30 PM

Emily - is that new picture really you? It does not look like the others.

From Emily Grossman
Posted on April 17, 2007 at 5:35 PM

It's me through the eyes of a fish.

From Tom Holzman
Posted on April 17, 2007 at 5:52 PM

Does your fish have a digital camera?

From Emily Grossman
Posted on April 18, 2007 at 4:44 AM

Okay, I stuck a normal one back on, sponsored by v.com.

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