Something Too Important to Forget: The Silence of Mornings

Earlier this month, at a writing retreat I took at an arts colony a few hours away, it was the silence that struck me most. I was there to work on revising the stack of poems I’ve amassed in the last two years. But I was also there for silence and solitude, refuge, seclusion.

On the desk was a binder with instructions and reminders for my time at the colony, and inside was a reminder: retreat means silence. We came there to work—we who were writing or working on our art—and silence was an integral part.

Immediately I was impressed by just how quiet it was in my room. Strangely. Unfamiliarly. I have known silence but mostly in the context of city or suburban living. Road noise, dogs barking, neighbors coming and going—here it didn’t exist. The colony is in the country, surrounded by acres of untouched land. Only stillness and utter quiet.

I texted my husband: It’s so quiet here. His reply: That’s why you came.

I came to be silent, to be still, to listen for something that had long been quiet, to remember something that I’d forgotten.

“What is the main thing a poet does?” writes Kathleen Norris. “We wait.”

My second night at the colony, the weather was changing and the temperature was dropping rapidly. Just as the sun went down, the power went out, leaving the handful of us who’d been in our rooms working unexpectedly in the dark with nothing but flashlights to keep the darkness at bay.

I called the electric company to report the outage, then again a half hour later to see when they expected the power to be restored. Three hours, they said, meaning the power would return shortly before bed.

In my room, I opened a bottle of wine and tipped the flashlight against the wall so I could read. My whole trip, I’d been working through May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude. That night I read this: “The delights of the poet as I jotted them down turned out to be light, solitude, the natural world, love, time, creation itself.”

The list was not definitive, but I’d spent the last two days immersing myself in each of these things, even love. It occurred to me that I’d have to find a way to bring this sense of retreat home.

At the colony, alone in my room, I was able to be just one thing: myself. There was no one to show up for, nothing dictating my time, only my own instincts and whims, only the silence and solitude to guide me. But real life is nothing like that. In my life, I wear all these hats, all these identities, which sometimes overlap but seldom allow me to simply be, with nothing to tend to but myself.

When I went home, I’d still have to be wife and mother, homemaker, employee, friend. If I let them, they can crush me. They can demand away whatever my soul needs in favor of what’s practical and necessary. People need care, homes need upkeep, work must get done. Even Sarton, who lived alone, would lament the necessity of it all, how time-consuming and frustrating it can be simply to make it through the day.

That night in the dark, contemplating what in my life could change to bring my sense of retreat home, I decided it was mornings. I’d have to reclaim the early morning, that sacred time while everyone else is still asleep and before the day starts laying its demands like a teacher wagging her finger.

Years ago, when my kids were smaller, early mornings had become golden hours—time for myself, whatever that meant. Sometimes it was to write essays or edit photos, other times to work and try to get ahead of the day. Back then, that early hour was mostly an opportunity to be productive, something I’d adopted after reading advice to use that morning energy to work on your most important projects. I took that to heart, reveling in the sense of accomplishment I felt before the clock struck seven a.m.

But I knew my early mornings now wouldn’t be about productivity. They shouldn’t be about productivity. Productivity wasn’t the point. Reclaiming my mornings would be more about being than doing. Being in the silence, finding that centered solitude. Listening. Lingering. Yes, I want to do work—write what wants to be written, create whatever wants to be made—but only from a centered, grounded place.

I came home from my retreat and started waking early on my own. No alarm, no pressure.

There’s something about the early quiet, especially in these dark winter months. It feels like a secret. Something private and wholly my own. The moments between sleeping and waking, while I’m still coming to full consciousness—those moments are precious.

I’ve heard others use the word receptive, and that’s exactly how I feel. The space that exists before speaking, before interacting with the world, somewhere between dreams and daily life. These are the moments I’m trying to catch. This is the gift I’m giving myself.

In the dark, I sit in the quiet, breathing deeply and trying to recall something. I am listening for a voice. I am trying to remember who I am. The productivity will come—it is coming—in its own time, which is a blessing and a relief. I am tired of defining myself by what I can produce, tired of putting pressure on parts of me that need release.

“You’re trying to remember something too important to forget,” writes Naomi Shihab Nye. And, yes, that’s it. That’s exactly it.