There was a time that, faced with the discomfort of silence, I would have told someone about my last smear test to fight the absence of sound between us. Going out for a meal with a large group of people, I’d groan internally when I realised that I was seated next to a craic vortex who would suck the energy out of me like a conversational drain, because human silence can be demanding.
Then there are people with a strong quietness, like my neighbour. She seems cool, and there’s scope for us to be friends, but each time I close the door after speaking to her, I slap my forehead and think, Why did I say that? There’s something circumspect in her few words that ramps up my gawkiness.
A friend of mine working in technology used to talk about using silence as a power tactic in the office. I didn’t take any notice of it then because he also said things like “blue sky meetings”, but I’m learning how talking less can draw out buried secrets and stories, and how it can disarm and fluster your adversary. It needs to be used sparingly, and this delicate tool is not an excuse for shutting someone out, in which case, the silence is deafening.
Some conversations have no room for silence because the talking is competitive. Each of you is breathlessly nodding, chomping down the other’s tale, at last reaching a juncture where the listener becomes the speaker and can release the story bursting from their mouth. I was travelling with a woman recently for two solid days, and we had a lovely equilibrium of exchange. I told her about how I thought there might be a poltergeist in my house. She gasped, sought more detail, and when I finished, she said, “I’m so glad you said all that because now I can tell you about my supernatural experiences.” She gripped me with memories of a banshee’s wails gliding across a black field in Cavan. We had found a happy seesaw, but there is effort in this, lest you be accused of conversational narcissism, of not genuinely listening, but rather, of greedily exploiting the unfinished point of the speaker to turn the conversation back to you.
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I used to have a ferocious appetite for knowledge of other people, which meant that I would happily take on the responsibility of creating and maintaining dialogue, but lately this has waned. Recently, I met my brother-in-law, who lives in Australia. I asked him a series of questions about things that I thought might be pertinent to his life, which he duly answered. I ran out of energy quickly and I told him in good humour that I was out of questions. That’s okay, he told me, and I felt that it was.
I’m moving away from lining up a pop quiz based on work, friends, health, family, and holidays. It’s unnerving. At a volunteer party at the football club, I walked in, slightly nervous, and sat down next to a deadpan kind of fella, whose big move is the power of mumbling. I abandoned my mental list of topics, relieved myself of meaningless jibber-jabber, and our conversation quickly turned into an unexpected and mind-altering discussion.
Maybe because I spend so much time with men, I not only feel less pressure to talk for the sake of talking, but I have gone as far as to enjoy the silence. I’ve noticed that, particularly with my close male friends, we can allow our chat to peter out. There is so much beauty in those quiet moments, side by side. When our voices fade, emotions have a chance to surface, and in that comfortable hush, there’s a feeling of security and love.
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Going to football matches in particular has taught me when to talk, and when to let go of any ego related to feeling unheard, because even earth-shattering news has no chance of getting aired if the football is good. On the sidelines is a sacred space where conversation, when offered, is unforced. I was at a match recently with six lovely lads, five of whom I barely know. The game wasn’t great, giving more scope for chat, but a good bit of seat-swapping prevented any real flow or depth of conversation.
A bag of Munchies was passed around and we each insipidly noted whether or not our square had any biscuit in it. The quietness on the pitch and in the stands created a sense of boredom. On the back of the Munchies chat, I asked the man to my left what chocolate he would pick if he went into a shop. Rolos, he told me. I grimaced, and everyone within earshot laid into him, setting off an animated conversation on the social acceptability of each of our nominations. We learned something about each other, and had a laugh about toffee-based treats. We were clamouring to have our preference heard when one of our players made a run for the goal with the ball at his toes, and we collectively fell into anticipatory silence.
