Lately I've been noticing how much I come to rely on noise in my life. It's all around me: from the singing toys to the barking dogs to Siobhan's newfound love for high-pitched, top-of-her-lungs squealing. And that's just in the house. I don't mind the cacophony that is our home, it's a fun kind of chaos. But what happens when we turn the volume down? I find I'm reliant on the noise to block out the running inner dialogue. Sometimes, like the other night when our TV volume control wasn't working, I find myself in a slight panic at the prospect of a quiet moment. I sometimes feel fearful without that reassuring symphony of sound, mostly because it leaves me alone with my thoughts. But that fear is almost always momentary. If I can resist the temptation to alleviate my discomfort by turning on the TV, radio or some other auditory distraction, what comes next is a feeling of sweet relief. It feels so good just to enjoy the quiet, once I get over that initial apprehension. If I surrender to the silence, what often follows is an experience of deeper presence and enjoyment of whatever it is I'm doing.
I think that's why I love the Mysore-style practice so much. Yes, it's a little uncomfortable at first, practicing yoga with only the sound of the breath to inspire me. It's so much easier to put on Pandora or a good mix and rock out on the mat. But I also find that I get more out of a silent practice. To me a good practice is determined by the calmness and serenity and presence of mind I feel in meditation and relaxation. With music playing, I find I'm still just a little distracted. A little less here and now. It's subtle, but the more years I show up on the mat, the more the subtleties emerge. Small things like whether or not I've got Led Zeppelin blasting at eleven start to make a difference.
Then again, sometimes you gotta get the Led out.
Just ask Siobhan, who uses salad utensils as drumsticks.
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