Deep in winter, cold temperatures, mornings still dark, wind blowing leaves through naked trees – to go out means to wrap yourself up in layers of clothing (hat, scarf, gloves, boots, coat) in order to face the elements, when the earth reminds us that cold rain and snow have their prime season too, whether we enjoy it or not. Then, those days, those dark mornings, or even those brighter afternoons, there may be a call to curl up in silence. Curling up like a child, curling up like a cat. Folding inwardly so we occupy a smaller space and we keep our body warmer. Tightly tucking the limbs closer to the chest and abdomen, and tucking the chin to the chest, bowing to close the circle we are drawing with our spine and bones. Wrapping the arms around the bent knees, or around the shoulders, or close to the heart. Perhaps even bringing a blanket or duvet over the body and the head, digging a symbolic burrow in which to settle and hide.
And then, silence. Staying put. Breathing in, breathing out. Sensing the tensions in the body, the tensions in the mind. Letting them be, letting them go. Tuning in to the world of emotions and sensations, without even trying. In the silence, noticing the many many sounds around. Breathing in, breathing out. Feeling the warmth spreading throughout the body. Noticing how the restless mind slows down by itself. Feeling out of time, out of the world. Stepping out. Cutting off. Returning to a point where there is no distraction, no disturbance, no demands. There is nothing, and there is everything. Life itself, encapsulated in a foetus, a grain, a cell. Just a glimpse of consciousness, no time constraints, no interruption, no interference. Darkness and light, stillness and movement. Anything is possible at this moment. Anything is knowable at this moment. We return to who we are, to what we are essentially: a potential of life.
We can be anything, do anything. We can experience life fully or withdraw from it. Our choice. We make a choice. Life is always there, it is in us, it is out there. Curled up in silence, we are reminded that we shape our relationship with life. We sip it or slurp it, or we alternate. Life is always there. How it nourishes us, nurtures us, depends on how we welcome it and prepare for it. When it feels too hard, too disheartening, too wounding, curling up in silence helps us remember that life is a fairly generous companion. It does not bend to our every wish, but it is always present. It does not offer us all we want here and now, but it offers a hand when we need it, although we do not always see the hand offered because we expect help to manifest a specific way we deem suitable and logical.
Curling up in silence, seemingly removing ourselves from the world, reminds us we are still alive. Curling up in silence reminds us we are still connected to something far beyond ourselves, something so essential, so transcending, that the hardships of the moment are small in comparison, because life is always present with a soft smile and a gentle embrace. In the dark, in the silence, out of time, we create a safe space to reconnect with life itself, with life in us. We can ask life: what do you want now? Where do you want me to go? And she does respond.
So we pull the blanket away from our head, we slowly spread one leg, then the other, lifting the head gently and blinking slowly to re-acquaint ourselves with the world. And then, breathing in, breathing out, we start moving again, one foot after the other, one step at a time.
In praise of those moments, that last as long as they need to last, when curling up in silence returns us to life…