The Forty Days

I like to talk.  I like to talk a lot.  I like to joke around with people, talk smack, get in friendly arguments about serious and non-serious topics (during which I always have to have the last word), and even have semi-deep conversations every once and awhile.  My gift of gab is one of my best assets, my defense mechanism, and also the thing that most often gets me into trouble.  So what would happen if I just shut the hell up for an entire day?  For centuries, practitioners of yoga have used days of silence to focus their emotional and mental energy inward to process events and discover epiphanies.  What will I discover?

The first couple of hours this morning are the most difficult.  I am intentionally clenching my mouth shut and consciously preventing myself from uttering any syllables.  I am acutely aware of suppressing my words, such that I actually find it more difficult to breathe.  I develop a headache (although this could be associated with the moderate amount of wine I drank the previous evening).  I communicate with Betsy through writing on a small notepad, which I use the entire day.  Betsy begins engaging in a discussion with me about the piles of neglected mail that have been building up around the house and then proclaims herself the winner of said “discussion.”  “I think I like this,” she gloats.  Yup, if anyone wants to win an argument against me, today is the day.

On my way to watch the Dallas Cowboys game with my friends Josh, Aric, and David, I go to Thundercloud Subs to pick up some lunch.  I write a note that contains my order and a note that explains that I lost my voice.  The sandwich artist seems a little weirded out.  I guess most people that lose their voice can still utter semi-coherent sentences and rarely carry around a notepad to communicate.  The entire exchange is awkward, and I feel highly aware of my “disability.”

When I arrive at David’s house, my friends already know about my experiment.  In fact, when I first inform Josh of my intention to engage in a day of silence, he tells me that he definitely wants to hang out that day, rightly implying that I tend to try and dominate conversations and my silence should provide a nice change of pace.  However, after about an hour of me communicating with him and the others through writing, he says, “I have to say that this is really awkward.”  David tells me that I need to get a Speak & Spell.  Ha!  I find it very, very difficult to complain about how pathetic the Cowboys are through writing alone.  In fact, when I finish watching the game at home, I accidentally slip when the Cowboys give up a touchdown in the last minute–allowing the Chiefs to tie the score–and say aloud to myself, “Are you f***ing kidding me?”  Nice, David.  You say five words the entire day, and one of them is a derivation of the f-word.

At 3 pm, I attend a yoga class.  In small classes, the teacher will sometimes have the students introduce themselves and inform the teacher of any injuries they may have.  Today is one of those days.  I write a note saying, “I lost my voice.  My name is David.  I’m doing fine (except for the voice thing).”  I pass the note to the person closest to me, and when it is my turn to speak, I just point to her.  Awk.  Ward.

When I get home, I engage in a “conversation” with Betsy about her day.  Eventually, we decide to see Inglorious Bastards–we have both been wanting to see it, and it seems like the perfect activity, given my inability to speak.  When I buy the movie tickets, I show the box office employee a note that simply says, “2. Inglorious Bastards.”  He tells me the price then asks if he needs to write it down.  I shake my head no.  He must assume I’m deaf.  I begin to wonder if this experiment is offensive or disrespectful to people who are deaf or mute.  Clearly, this is not my intention.  I feel bad.

Seeing a movie without speaking is actually surprisingly difficult if you are with another person.  I keep having to suppress the desire to ask Betsy questions when they arise.  I just have to sit there and try and answer those questions myself.  As I drive back on the way home, Betsy essentially engages in a one-way conversation regarding her thoughts about the movie and technical difficulties she’s having with her iPhone.  Because I am driving, I cannot respond but have some definite thoughts about these subjects.  When I get home, I begin scribbling my thoughts down, and eventually Betsy jokes, “Boy, you won’t shut up.  You’re being a real blabbermouth.”  I laugh.  Eventually, the night ends quietly.

Wow.  What a truly unique and amazing experience.  What did I learn?  First, and foremost, I noticed that my communications were almost entirely devoid of negative thoughts and my communications with my wife in particular were more kind and caring.  On ordinary days, my words can be curt and cutting, insincere, spoken for a laugh at another’s expense, or even downright rude.  But not today.  I guess when you can speak freely and communication is easy, words are cheap.  It’s easy to say bad things.  But when communication is difficult, words are more expensive, and there is a tendency to put more care and thought into what you put out into the world.  Second, I realized the importance of non-verbal communication, as I was forced to rely heavily on non-verbal gestures and cues.  I also noticed that I was more affectionate with the wifey because I could more comfortably and easily communicate with her non-verbally.  Third, I realized that I need to work on my handwriting.  Finally, I learned that it is very easy to remember your conversations throughout the day when you write down everything you say.  In looking over my copious notes, I realize that much of what I say in a typical day is probably unimportant and irrelevant.  But not all of it.  Some of the time, my words are relevant, are important–albeit in one tiny corner of the globe–and that words, in fact, do matter.