The Gift of silence
Discovering Stillness, Listening, and Presence in Daily Life
The first word I learned in Chinese, after the customary “How are you?” and “Happy New Year,” was tīng which means to listen. It was introduced to me by my Qigong teacher, and it made me realise how central listening and silence could be in practice. The character includes several parts: the ear, the eyes, undivided attention, the heart, and you. What a beautiful reminder that true listening isn’t only about hearing, it’s about presence. It’s about bringing your whole self, your senses, your awareness, your heart, to the process.
Silence, then, is not merely the absence of sound. In Qigong, it allows listening to unfold, not just to others, but to nature and to the subtle language of your own body. Each slow movement, each breath, invites attention and attunement.
In our world of constant hum: traffic, phones, conversation, background noise, silence can feel unusual, even unsettling. Around 40% of people in the UK live near roads where the noise is loud enough to affect their health. We’ve grown so used to sound that when it fades away, it can feel like something is missing.
And yet, silence is not empty. It is alive.
The Space Between Things
The Japanese have a word for this: Ma - the space between things. It’s the pause between musical notes, the gap between brushstrokes in a painting, or the stillness between two movements in a dance. Ma reminds us that life’s meaning doesn’t lie only in action or noise, but also in the spaces that hold and shape them. Silence is Ma made audible, the pause that lets life breathe.
Many writers and spiritual practitioners have sought this space. The novelist Sara Maitland found silence to be a source of creativity and joy during her time living alone in rural Scotland. The writer Pico Iyer, in The Art of Stillness, describes how moments of quiet can offer “adventure of a different kind”, one that leads inward rather than outward.
Silence as Practice
A few years ago, I went on a silent retreat for a long weekend. I remember being worried that I wouldn’t be able to “hack it”, that the quiet would feel too much. But once the talking stopped, something surprising happened. It felt freeing. Without the need to speak or respond, I began to listen not just to sounds, but to sensations, to my own thoughts, to the subtle language of my body. It was as if silence itself became a kind of friend and allowed me to ‘be’ without any need for explanation or worrying about what came next.
In the yogic tradition, there’s a concept called Pratyahara — often translated as “withdrawal of the senses.” It isn’t about shutting the world out, but about turning inward, allowing awareness to rest from constant stimulation. Silence invites that same turning — a way of gathering the scattered senses and coming back home.
Listening in Winter
In Qigong and Chinese philosophy, the season of winter is linked to the Water element. Water teaches us about depth, flow, and yielding — and its associated sense is Listening. Just as still water reflects the sky, silence helps us reflect life and hear its subtler tones.
Winter’s invitation is to listen: to the quiet within, to what is ready to rest and renew. How might you notice the subtle sounds of the season — the wind in the trees, the stillness in a frosted garden — and let them guide your awareness?
Why Silence Matters
Research shows that silence lowers stress and improves focus, but its true gifts are deeper. Silence reconnects us — with ourselves, with nature, and with the world’s quiet pulse. When we stop filling every gap, we notice how alive the quiet really is: the hum of wind, the breath in the body, the spaces between heartbeats.
We spend much of our lives with too many tabs open — conversations, messages, plans. Silence allows us to begin closing those tabs, one by one. It’s a way of returning to simplicity and clarity.
Ways to Welcome Silence
You might begin gently:
Pause before responding. Notice the Ma — the spaciousness — between hearing and speaking.
Take a silent walk. Leave your phone behind. Let the natural world do the talking.
Eat one meal in silence each week. Taste, texture, and gratitude all deepen when attention is undivided.
Try a sensory meditation. Notice five things you can see, four you can hear, three you can feel, two you can smell, and one you can taste.
Make a sound map. Sit quietly and mark down each sound you hear on a blank page. You may be surprised by how full silence really is.
Listening as Practice
The Chinese character tīng — to listen — offers a rich invitation to bring this awareness into everyday life. It reminds us that listening is not one simple act, but a whole-body practice of attention. You might like to explore it through the week:
Monday — Ears: Focus on tone, pace, pause, and rhythm of spoken words. What are you hearing that helps you listen more deeply?
Tuesday — Eyes: Notice facial expressions, gestures, posture, and subtle movement. What are you seeing that enhances understanding?
Wednesday — Mind: Observe how your mind is listening. Are you open and receptive, or evaluating and analysing? What type of listening does this moment call for?
Thursday — Heart: Listen with empathy. Tune into the emotions behind words, and into the silence between them.
Friday — Undivided Attention: Bring everything together — ears, eyes, mind, and heart — and offer your full attention. Notice how it transforms connection.
When we listen this way, silence becomes the thread that holds everything together: the quiet field in which real connection grows.
Silence in Practice
In my classes, I find that a natural quiet begins to fall — a collective settling as we move and breathe together. Sometimes my voice carries through the stillness, but I have made a conscious choice not to use music. When I trained as a yoga teacher, we actively discussed this. I enjoy practicing to music myself, but when I teach or practice in silence, something shifts. It feels more spacious, more profound — as though the silence itself is part of the practice.
Music can shape emotion, guiding how we feel. I once experienced a very wordy, jarring performance poem played during savasana, and it reminded me how powerfully sound can direct the inner landscape. I prefer to let each person’s experience unfold quietly, supported by the rhythm of breath and the subtle resonance of the room. Sometimes I read, but I hope that my words leave more room than music — that they land softly, and then dissolve into silence.
As the Chinese character tīng reminds us, true listening calls for all of us: our ears, our eyes, our attention, and our heart. Silence gives each of these space to meet.
Photo by Anton Atanasov on Unsplash