Silence, Solitude, Nature, and How to Balance Each?
As spurred by Silence: In the Age of Noise and some other recent reads of mine, I mulled over quiet, connection, and how much self-sufficiency I really want.
Published December 15, 2024
This was originally going to be a review of Silence: in the Age of Noise by Erling Kagge, but bear with me. It ended up turning into more of a musing on quiet and nature and solitude and connection, so keep going if you're curious. I'm turning the former into its own separate, straightforward book review. WLS as an entity isn't really big on editing; that's for my magazine journalism, folks.
Silence: In the Age of Noise by Erling Kagge
Release Date: December 4, 2018
Publisher: Vintage Books
Format: eBook
Source: Library
"A joyful celebration" (NPR) that shows us why silence is essential to our sanity and happiness—and how it can open doors to wonder and gratitude--from a renowned explorer and acclaimed author.
In this astonishing and transformative meditation, Erling Kagge, famed Norwegian explorer and the first person to reach the South Pole alone, explores the silence around us, the silence within us, and the silence we must create. By recounting his own experiences and discussing the observations of poets, artists, and explorers, Kagge shows us what silence is, where it can be found, and why it is now more important than ever.
Naturally, this book (and other recent events) had me thinking about silence and solitude.
Despite what my online presence might have you think, I'm a very quiet person, which does go along with the whole reader identity. Often, as someone who works from home (and newly lives alone too), I'll sometimes look up and realize I've gone close to 48 hours without breathing a word. Even if I've gone to other places. If I ever notice it warping into insecurity rather than choice, I go off to be social, but in general, I spend a lot of time in the company of me, myself, and I.
I see friends frequently but perhaps not daily, especially when on deadline. Writing (and most of my activities) are solitary pursuits, and require a lot of baked-in alone time so I can simmer over my thoughts and connections. The only way I've been able to successfully support myself as a professional creative is by learning and structuring my rhythms accordingly for the best possible output, and those gaps can be crucial.
Within a group, I'm often the wallflower or people-watcher. When people describe me to myself, their first word is usually "independent." Once, in college, a friend told me that I'd gone the entire night at dinner without saying anything, and she didn't mean it as a compliment. Usually, people do seem to mean it as a compliment, but I've also been thinking a lot lately about U-shaped traits: helpful to a certain point, but then it's on you to recognize when it becomes harmful rather than helpful. My quietness is one of those.
Don't get me wrong: get me on the right topic and I won't shut up. Friday night, I brought up a book rec in just about every other sentence. I was, uhhh, not entirely sober and have read a ton of good, thought-provoking books lately I've been dying to book club; it was funny yet annoying, and I did apologize. My friend: "Is there a book about apologizing?")
Still, usually, my default is fundamentally quiet. I think I'm cool and fascinating and try to "be a great girl", (a camp motto) but I am not ever going to be the loudest or most wild at the party.
This year, I've really been considering the line between solitude and loneliness. As The Paradox of Choice by Barry Schwartz recently articulated, we often blur the line between self-reliance and autonomy too.
We like being under our own control. We like being self-governed, but there's a point at which it actually makes us less happy.
I like my wallflower-ness. I like listening. I like being alone, and I love my own company. Still: what's the standard I should be aiming for?
There's the Peace Only Silence Can Bring
When I moved down the road in Waialua in April, I remembered waking up the first morning on the blow-up mattress in my new space and realizing how peacefully I'd slept. I'd had the same realization in college too, when I shifted from on-campus housing to a quiet cabin overlooking the river for senior year. I'd automatically sifted through so much noise before then, but the lack of it made me go blank. Since I've always been a bad sleeper, that change was significant.
When seeking roommates in previous situations, I've always asked to align on quiet hours on weekdays, saying we'd probably get along best if we had similar communal noise awareness—because I have lived in households in which people would queue up speakers in the middle of the night when others were sleeping, or slam doors in the early morning. It always jolted me. It's a valid way of living, of course, but just means we're likely not the best fit because we might have different interpretations of what's preferred or most considerate.
My old house had constant roosters. (A core memory of my twenties in Hawai'i will be waking up hungover to roosters cawing at 7 A.M.) There were certain noises I associated with the rhythms of the day: a toddler in the house behind us crying daily at around 1 P.M. (presumably naptime), cars circling the roundabout in the late afternoon, suped-up trucks growling and blasting music.
I never thought of myself as particularly sensitive to noise, but I do get stressed by it on occasion. Once, my brother-in-law Tommy picked up on me getting agitated by the endless flow of family when I was trying to get work done. I was maybe in high school, doing homework at the table before a holiday break, and I still remember him just coming up behind me and putting his over-ear headphones on me, queued up to ocean noise (which, bonus: is also good for us.) To be loved is to be seen, etc,. etc,. and that one gesture meant a lot. I always remember and remain grateful for significant acts of kindness.
My college town was loud. Manhattan obviously was too, and Honolulu to a certain extent. The North Shore is definitely a little quieter, and more up my alley. Apparently, some of my neighbors will "make the roosters go away" if they start to become a problem in the audio landscape. I absolutely adore it.
And I do like background noise too. Some songs I've listened to so frequently that they're basically white noise. Sometimes, I'll put on a show to cook or clean or whatever if I feel like I've had too much "sameness" in a day restricted to home.
I love the activity of a city, but silence settles me. But silence is also never really silent either? You'll hear the hum of an air conditioner or the buzz of an insect out in nature. Even snow has a muffled sound.
The Satisfaction of Immersion in Nature
In my initial visibility/silence kick in 2019, I read a lot of nature and exploration writers who align with my values. Mary Oliver reflecting on the forest. Akiko Busch talking about awe and collective identity. Kate Murphy describing the mechanisms we have for listening. If you want to be alone, go out into nature. Easy enough. Checkbox.
In most ways, I'm propelled by a reverence for the natural world, and what I call a "strong sense of place" (which defines my reading and writing taste.) In picking where I wanted to live, I knew I needed to prioritize natural beauty for my own happiness.
Realistically, career-wise, New York or L.A. would be most beneficial for my network and resume. There's a certain density of opportunity, and relevant social connection, that you can't build as effectively elsewhere. But on a day-to-day level, ya girl needs that green and blue. After hours on my screen, I prefer to look up and be steps from the outdoors.
Studies also show that being in the great outdoors is fundamental to our well-being. I could go hours and hours in a natural environment just being still or wandering (and have, even, in an observatory nature drawing class.)
There's a concept I loved articulated in Grit that dovetails nicely with the comfort of nature. Nuance is novelty. Experts are never bored in their pursuit because they're always romanticizing and noticing the change in details rather than seeking their next hijacked hit of dopamine. Nature is very natural in provoking the former rather than the latter.
I've also always loved reading about awe, and how awe is the single force that seems to provoke both a feeling of smallness/humility and bigness/significance. It's easier to find awe out in nature and to bring its benefits back with you.
Seeking Silence & Developing My Sense of Solitude
A pro and con of myself as a person is that I adore my own company, and am very content being by myself. There are of course some contributing factors to my love of independence.
- I have a lot of hobbies and projects, and so can be selfish with my time in pursuit of my larger goals. People tend to also call me "intense" in tandem. (I'll definitely write more about hobbies ahead of 2025.)
- I'm very close with family and loved ones I let in, so do have the security to venture out by myself. Sometimes, I am the worst at keeping up with those I love most because I know we can go months without talking and still view each other as "soul people."
- I'm an identical twin, so I've always been very self-sufficient in reaction to our bond. I have a certain (sometimes unhealthy) sensitivity to the feeling of my independence being encroached upon because I'm so used to sharing everything, people trying to shove us together, being conflated as the same person, etc,. We are both so good to each other about it, but it makes us both very aware in the outside world of how we protect and cherish our individuality and autonomy. Every personality test I've ever taken tells me something about valuing individualism.
- I do act in alignment with my values! So although I will analyze flaws and mistakes and weaknesses to death too, I know that I'm cool and kind and fascinating, and that's really all I need. I shape my life in accordance with who I want to be and am always trying to get there. I personally feel very strongly in being a genuine "what you see is what you get" kind of person, and I wouldn't be who I am if I didn't like who that was. Hence: solo.
I originally wrote in a blurb on solo-traveling and the love of solo dinners and all that jazz, but decided to save it for a more travel-focused reflection.
But the Question of 2024: How Much Should I Be Relying on Others?
This year, I've thought a lot about self-sufficiency and identity and being social and connections and all that jazz. I've been doing a solitary pursuit (chasing a book deal) for a very long time, and all my progress—although driven by my individual grit—is only possible (or perhaps, slightly less brutal) because of the support and love I do feel. Still, I've spent thousands of hours getting it done by myself, and that's affected everything else about me, intensifying some of my tendencies.
I'm not really having an existential crisis over all this because I'm very comfortable with who I am, but I'm having a weird moment of synthesis, so to speak, in which everything I'm reading and absorbing seems to have personal relevance to how I've been moving through reality, both by myself and in relation to others.
2024 has been a strange year because it's been one of my absolute favorites. Nearly everything I've wanted to do has been working or paying off (knock on wood) and I've gotten opportunities I never would have dreamed of. I'm finally getting some validation for working my tail off and the absurd amount of sacrifice that I've put in thus far.
But it's also been a really hard year for that exact reason—everything at its climax or peak, and I'm simply unable to do everything as one singular person. Don't get me wrong; I absolutely try. I'm ridiculously stubborn and never quit. But there's not a single point this year when I have not said I've been "drowning," and the intensity has really forced me to consider how independent I am, how independent I want to be, and what's needy vs. what's human when it comes to how I lean on other people or let them lean on me.
Everything the Reading List's Led Me to
I read Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's insistence on self-autonomy, and Cormac McCarthy's stubborn ruggedness, and Alice Munro's need for emotional distance. I've read about attachment styles in trying to decode my patterns in relationships, both platonic and romantic. I've considered how best to trust others, whether or not I'm a good listener, whether self-reflection is feeding narcissism. How to be more here-and-now. How to detach from outcomes and define myself less by what I'm doing. How to vanish, occasionally, without detracting from significance. How to channel awe.
Recently, I was reading about the importance of not confusing self-reliance and autonomy. What is a rich inner life and the comfort of solitude, versus what's too zoomed-in a focus? In some ways, our assumption that we can control anything, much less ourselves, is incredibly naïve in the face of so much cultural sway and so many unconscious influences. It is not rational to assume we are rational creatures.
And none of us want to need anybody—but paradoxically, we also want to be needed. Social ties are crucial to our survival, or else we wouldn't value them so highly, and community's tied to everything from life expectancy to health outcomes. But then again, belonging can diffuse personal responsibility and accountability.
Still, the deep-rooted need to socialize ripples into everything about our basic instincts. It's a reason why we drink alcohol, or why sex releases neurotransmitters inspiring closeness, or why dancing and music are fun for us—because these are each processes and behaviors that are basically "glue" between you and participants within our loyalty systems. They make you less likely to be picked off by a predator, more likely to pass on your genetics to the next generation, and thus fulfill your evolutionary obligation. (I have said this spiel at a party before; I'm real fun.)
Fundamentally, altruism and connection often make us feel happier and more significant; we get a giddy boost from helping others (which is one of my favorite fun facts), although we might also feel guilty about whether or not what we do is "truly" selfless. (Very little is, if we're speaking biologically.) You want to matter to people, don't you?
The "Yellow Zone"—Wading into More Reliance
Historically, I've had trouble wanting to date, largely because of my emphasis on self-sufficiency. Dating's not something I can intellectualize myself into. I just have to do it.
I don't ever feel like I need a romance, but I think a lot of mechanisms for initially meeting someone are based on "needing." I dislike apps for being propelled by that desire (like you're searching for the feeling over connecting to a specific person) and they feel embarrassing because I don't necessarily chase the feeling, either? If I meet someone I adore and am attracted to, I'm sure it'll become a crush once we've gotten close—but until then, how do you get yourself to actually seek it out?
I'm of course caring and loyal and will sacrifice whatever for the people I love, but I also knew that for a while, I didn't want to be beholden to anyone when my attention was so dominated by my book and other pursuits. Sure, I could go on dates, but if I wasn't actually mentally open to someone enough to sacrifice my time and autonomy, I didn't want to show up and be a bad listener or be disrespectful. For those several years, I just really wanted to have control and do my own thing without any impact.
When I do get close, I don't really like the feeling. A lot of romance feels like too much, too fast, and like the person in question doesn't know me well enough, and I'm pretty sure I've had to muscle through that suffocated instinct in every relationship I've ever had. I am slow. I dislike the vulnerability of having a crush, requited or not, and I think it's pretty scary (and annoying) that someone can impact your moods so much. I get frustrated as soon as I get attached, paradoxically.
As Attached pointed out, when we pick a partner, we are literally picking the person who will regulate our nervous systems, for better and worse. But even the idea of that is disorienting and uncomfortable to get used to.
And as The Molecule of More noted, we tend to chase those who spike our dopamine levels (intermittent praise, if we've competed for them against others, if they play mental games, etc,.) versus those who may actually be best for us (because consistency activates our systems less, which we mistakenly interpret as them being less interesting.) I've totally had this conversation in regards to friendships, but I do think — and see it proven — that consistency can sometimes unconsciously be punished.
We either end up catering to the more extreme players in social scenarios because they're triggering our more addictive reflexes, or we end up unconsciously viewing steadiness as suffocating.
This year, I mainly decided I really needed to date again largely because it'd been 4+ years since I'd tried or cared enough to. My realization was that I realized I could look up 4+ years from now and be in the same boat.
I kept waiting for this craving or void to hit and force me into it, but the problem is that I don't (?) really have a romantic void? So whoever I meet and adore has to incentivize me more than my own company plus get over the hurdle of me being cagey/weird/stiff when they first get to know me—and like I said, I generally feel very icky about the concept of getting close enough to someone for them to affect me significantly. Once I'm there, I'm there, and vulnerability just doesn't feel good (at first, at least.) It's funny that as someone who's spent so much time mulling over trust and the importance of it, I'm not as trusting as I should be.
The hours and energy devotion to my book has been a solid excuse, sure, but it's not the only reason. I should realistically make more of an effort because I don't want to get to my thirties and never have tried. One day, I do want a partner and family and all that, and I don't want the years to pass me by because I never stopped to prioritize it.
This fall, I've embraced the "yellow zone" of being technically open to connection again, but not forcing anything. I'm really only interested in someone if I can see it working out long-term, and that's been rare for me, especially in my particular dating pool. I'm also slow-burn all the way, which isn't uncommon, but definitely isn't the default either.
The Love of People You Can Be Alone with—and Places That Feel Untouched
Over the years, I've realized that many of my favorite people are those who I feel like I can be alone "with." We both have our own lives and interests and passions, which means that being together feels both like an active choice and a default mode of relaxation that's perhaps most true to who we are when we're by ourselves. We can read or write or sleep or scroll or work or whatever without feeling like we have to entertain the other. My best friends from all walks of life tend to fall into that category, or else they wouldn't be my best friends.
Every summer, I go to my family's cottage in Canada. I will plan my entire year around getting two or three weeks there—either end of June or beginning of July. My family has a litmus test of sorts related to being a Black Islander or not, and this concept sort of relates.
Nowadays, Black Island is on the grid. Internet-accessible. We have Bluetooth speakers and routers and a swanky wine fridge. The WiFi helps with remote work but is unfortunate for the feeling of being "unreachable." The island has changed (and become more modern) over time, as opposed to several generations ago: Aunt Tisty building her own shack at one end and skinny-dipping every morning.
As a kid, I remember my dad having to drive into town (Port Hope, Ontario) to use the library for work. Or one summer, the marina finally got WiFi so we'd have to take the boat to Harris Boat Works and sit there finishing FLVS modules for Latin or whatever virtual class we were in.
Those we bring to the island usually have to at least be comfortable occupying themselves. Ideally, they would relish it. Most bring books. Or they'll kayak or paddleboard around the island. Swim across the lake. Go for long walks through the country. At night, sure, we'll play cards or darts or make cocktails and go for lake-sprayed sunset cruises or whatever, or excuse ourselves for 1:1 time with our people. But Black Island is very take-what-you-need. My family is also very good at recognizing when someone needs to retreat.
I think there's a certain kinship to be found in collective appreciation for individual solitude.
On Black Island, that looks like each bringing a book down to the Adirondack, or departing to exercise, or relaxing in silence until we decide to do something together. It's very low-pressure. Of course, we're holed up together for a week or two, which definitely helps with the bonding, but I always leave feeling significantly closer. It's also comforting because they're probably seeing me and loving me at my most honest: very who are you when I'm not looking?
Personally, I have many people I love who are not Black Island material, and I do love plenty of people who just want company at all times too, which isn't a dig or a problem.
But I could probably never end up with someone who doesn't see that type of place and environment as a paradise, at least for some of the time. It's definitely mine. Black Island is one of the few places I deeply relax. For that reason, it's also one of the places in which I'm most inspired, creative, and connected. It's one of the most important places and homes in the world to me (if not the main), and so defines my sense of self, kicking off this philosophy of mine of defining myself by the places I love most.
On Black Island, you also have to work hard to treasure it. Every summer, we maintain the trails, haul water, repair docks, take the trash to the dump, whatever. There are spider webs and all the windows are warped and foggy, and you have to appreciate a certain slant of camping-ness.
I've only had three guests to the island (my friends Frances and Ali, and my college boyfriend) and they each relished it. It feels even better because we all worked for it. Even now, I'm aware in structuring my savings and investments how I need to set aside money for the maintenance of that property when I reach the age in which I start contributing to the fund, with the families involved considering who will be the next generation of caretakers and contributors.
I recently talked in a review about the strange sadness of the over-explored, how we'll never get those wide open spaces (shoutout to The Chicks). Or how nowadays, kids will never really know the freedom of disappearing on a bike for the afternoon á la Calvin and Hobbes, and reappearing with some skinned knees. Black Island is special partly because it channels that too.
I wrote about this in my book, too. There's disappearing by yourself, and then there's the feeling of being around other people. And there's a special, middle category of soul-people for you that you feel similar to or connected enough to that you feel like you're able to disappear with{' '}them.
Before I made any of these connections among myself, I used to have a Rilke poem hung up above one of those constellation posters above my bed. That poem summons such peace and understanding for me.
“Understand I will quietly slip away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming over the oaks. I'll pursue the solitary pathways of the twilight meadows with only this one dream. You come too. — Rainer Maria Rilke”
My Little Quietness Insecurity: Does My Preference for Solitude Make Me Too Serious?
If there is one element of my introversion that I'm most insecure about, it's likely the concept of being "too serious."
It's been an intense year. I have intense dreams, and I'm pursuing them intensely. I go hard, I keep to myself, and sometimes, if you see me, you're only seeing that energy rather than the "fun" aspects you might see if I were around more frequently. It can be very seasonal.
And something I've made peace with: I am a serious person, because I have gigantic dreams that you can only accomplish if you muscle through them and make yourself one of the 1% of the 1% of the 1% of people that stick through it. It requires a lot of self-belief and willpower and refusal to back down, and again, just because I feel weak in handling it sometimes doesn't mean that I am. But it will mean that a lot of people will shy away from the aura surrounding the challenge when I'm in go-mode.
Over the years, I've learned how to navigate that more, to negate the feeling of being "too much." (For one, I don't really believe in "too much" because I am who I am, take it or leave it? But I know I can make adjustments for my intensity to be more palatable.)
I've largely figured out that I need to be better about going and being social when I don't feel like it, or am tired after one of those huge, ambitious pushes, so that I can dilute that image of myself by showing other aspects of my personality; more frequent exposure to others, when I'm in a variety of moods, can show more three-dimensionality. (Familiarity bias, anyone?) On the potentially-rarer occasions I do get lonely, I get very lonely, and I don't want that seriousness to be the only flash of me someone sees.
In a similar vein, it is a fundamental belief of mine that people become how you treat them and you unconsciously fill whatever role they assign you, so I've chatted some with other quiet friends about how independence and being "the quiet one" can be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Just because I might decline an invitation doesn't mean I wouldn't like to be invited another time, and maybe I would be more visibly animated if given the space to be. I don't think I have resting bitch face or anything, but I do tend to be more reserved in groups. (Plus, I don't want people thinking I'm mean or judgmental! I promise I'm not!) Just because I am serious doesn't mean that I am not also...a myriad of other qualities depending on the scenario. It's one part of me, realistically a dominant one, but not the only one either.
Being a camp counselor for years is such a good example of the self-fulfilling prophecy of introversion and extroversion. While working at summer camp, I was my most social self—in some ways, like playing a character. A lot of the language I use in MOUNTAIN SOUNDS relates to being "on" and "off," with counselors resting when they're alone.
But then, it's almost like "fake it 'til you make it." The energy is genuine as it unfolds, but it is motivated by a need to force the extroversion. So sometimes, I think I should be better about forcing it, if only to challenge myself.
Nowadays, What's the Best Way to Get a Little Lost? Or Channel This Kind of Quiet Presence?
Obviously, it's harder to get lost nowadays, or to channel the particular serenity of quiet. Noise refers to the audio level, sure, but also the sheer amount of information barraging our senses at a given time. Visual noise. The expectation of availability and an opinion on everything, constantly tuning into everything. The world is largely explored. And geographically, we're more aware of why we should be respectful towards hidden places, privacy geotags for natural spots suffering from foot traffic, and the like.
A few methods that have worked for me lately in capturing the feeling—
- I love how in certain activities (like skiing, surfing, etc,.), you might be surrounded by others but still on your own. There's a shared kinship in the pursuit of a given passion too, and flow states are rife for that feeling. So I love going out to activities like that. You can make friends or not—pick your poison.
- Literally getting lost with others—like my friend Allie and I used to go off to hike together. We'd get a little lost together in Virginia. When the cell service cut out and the folk playlist started skipping and the trees cast those lacy, dark shadows over the car—you knew. It was always so peaceful, and we always had the best conversations in the middle of the woods. I'm asthmatic as hell so always feel bad hiking with folks because I do have to puff-puff on the inhaler every so often, but I enjoy it if they're cool with a slightly slower pace. (Sorry, y'all.)
Sort of related: one of my huge, giant life goals is to thru-hike the Pacific Crest Trail. It's one of those things that I absolutely know that I will do (because I'm a stubborn goal-setter) because I cannot imagine myself not doing it. I'm not sure when that'll happen, and I'm not even backpacking frequently now, but one day, it will.
Maybe between book deals (a gal can dream) or after a significant loss, or between moves or career shifts. Maybe I'll choose to do it with someone else, or maybe I'll embark on it alone and encounter a "trail family" to go with and have trusted checkpoints with loved ones along the route.
Anyway, everything I've written lately has been long-winded and meandering (like my favorite trails), but I hope it leaves you with some food for thought.
If you're curious about silence and solitude, complement your musing with a meditation on the importance of visibility vs. disappearance too.
