Like every other folk
singer, I’ve played some unusual shows. Stuck in the corner of a restaurant’s
empty back patio, playing for no one, while the crowd inside watched
football. Set up alongside a marathon route, playing for an endless stream of somewhat
preoccupied runners. Performing on a cruise ship’s main
stage with a pick-up band as the elegant room tossed and lurched in a violent
storm. But of all the countless shows I’ve played, this was the oddest – a
concert at a week-long silent retreat at The Chopra Center.
The Chopra Center for Wellbeing is one of the world’s
premier mind-body healing and educational centers. Nestled on the grounds of
the Omni La Costa Resort and Spa in Carlsbad, California, the Chopra Center
offers a full menu of spiritual and physical healing programs, as well as
off-site retreats at Asilomar, Sedona, Costa Rica, and beyond. Built over
twenty years ago on the groundbreaking work of Drs. Deepak Chopra and David
Simon, the Chopra Center has changed countless lives and cultivated a bevy of teachers and facilitators,
and I am honored to call myself one of them. Since I’ve entered into
partnership with the Center I’ve offered two events, with two more on the
calendar for this summer and fall. Mostly they’re lectures, or all-day retreats.
But the one I did last month was different.
I arrived a few hours early on the afternoon of the
concert. I set up and waited. I drank some herbal tea. A palpable quiet
permeated the space. As the start time approached, in they came, alone, or in
twos and threes. No one said a word. They were coming from massages, Ayurvedic
treatments, or meditation sessions. Many were wearing robes. It was their first
full day of silence. We greeted each other with eye contact, nods, and
welcoming smiles. When everyone was seated, the retreat leader introduced me
and I began.
As Trappist monk Father Thomas Keating said, “Silence is
the language of God. All else is a bad translation.” And as any musician knows,
music is the art of deciding exactly how to ruin the silence. Still, I was
bound to do my best to provide a worthwhile soundscape for these silent
retreatants to enjoy. I thought long and hard about the set list. I plotted
every tempo flow, key change, and lyric theme. I kept it simple. I kept it
clean. I kept it quiet, and I leaned on songs that had a restful glow at the
center – nothing too fancy or busy. I played my most soulful and reflective
originals, and a lot of great covers with the same broad, expansive,
contemplative vibe.
After my first song they applauded. O.K. good, so they
were allowed to clap. That helped – a welcome dose of reciprocity. Then by the
third song, something began to open up, like a rose blooming, revealing a
hidden beauty and blush. They were leaning into me and I into them. We were
holding each other up. To some extent that happens at every show, well, the
good ones anyway. But this was different. This was more urgent, hungrier, more
penetrating. It’s as if with their power of speech gone, their sense of hearing
expanded. I’ve never felt the
presence of an audience more deeply. I’ve never felt more heard. They hung on
every note, every word. Both of us, on either side of the guitar, were daring
vulnerability, and with vulnerability comes intimacy.
In some ways, this concert at the silent retreat was the
natural culmination of the trajectory my musical career had taken for years. I’d
played in loud rock and roll bands in college, my Les Paul like a lit fuse in
my hands, the din of amps and drums ringing in my ears for days, (and robbing
me of a good chunk of my hearing in middle age). Later, folk duos dominated,
the tone of unadorned acoustic guitars proving richer and more enthralling than
a rack of effects pedals through an amp on eleven. Eventually, I left all that
behind to focus on solo performance. Something about emptying out the sound and
leaving more space called to me. I’ve noticed that about my songwriting too –
my songs keep getting shorter and simpler. Every time I remove an element, the
impact increases. Less really is more.
So when I entered into partnership with The Chopra
Center, I jumped at the chance to bring my guitar and perform. It wasn’t even
my idea. I pitched myself as a lecturer, a teacher of Asian philosophy, and a
meditation facilitator. But I guess they checked out my website and found out
about my other life. I was surprised when they asked. And of course I said yes.
It made perfect sense.
On each day of the silent retreat one of the five senses
was featured. The first day was sound – that’s where I fit in. The next day was
visual – they were painting. The day after that was touch – they were crafting
personal altars. And so on. I thought it was brilliant. And I was thrilled to
be a small part of it.
The composer Claude Debussy said that “Music is the
silence between the notes.” The best musicians understand that they are always
doing two things: playing music, and playing
silence. Without the gaps between the notes, music would just be one long, horrible
wail. As jazz master Miles Davis put it, “It’s not the notes you play, it’s the
notes you don’t play.” I’ve often noticed this as I’ve collaborated with
countless musicians through the years, some truly great, and others still
learning. One of the quickest tells of who has experience and who doesn’t is
how silent they are. The player who’s always noodling during rehearsal, or who
over-plays every song, filling every gap with noise, is the beginner who
mistakenly believes that musicianship is synonymous with flash and flurry. The
seasoned pro, on the other hand, is as silent as a mouse during rehearsal, and
during the song, they disappear into the pocket so deeply that you don’t know
where they end and the music begins. A poor musician plays their instrument. A
great musician plays the song.
The same rule applies in public speaking, whether you’re
a politician, a preacher, or a professor – all various forms of story teller. And
as master storyteller Ira Glass, host of Public Radio’s “This American Life” puts it, “In radio you have two tools. Sound and silence.” The best
speakers understand this. If you never stop and take a beat, and instead pummel
your audience with a never ending slurry of words, numbness sets in. Your
speech, no matter how eloquent, loses its power. If you take a pause, on the
other hand, and fill the room with sudden silence, the gravitational field
shifts. Everyone in the room looks up and locks eyes with you. What you say
next is offered up on a silver platter and savored.
In
the right measure, silence and sound work beautifully together. Sound conveys
from without while silence draws up from within the treasures of our own insights
and awareness that otherwise lay dormant, submerged, and hidden. Sound gives us
the gifts of others. Silence gives us the gift of ourselves.
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