It has been seven days without headphones, without radio, without much recorded sound. I want this quiet, this listening, to continue. I stay without radio for an eighth day, and write:

Today the car ride home from work was precious. I had this sense, with the radio off, that I was truly enough–that we are truly enough. Constant media forces itself down our throats so we feel we always need more, need to be more. Space and silence and quiet tell us, by their empty presence, that we are enough. What a gift. Blessed are those who hunger.

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When I traveled and lived abroad, I became accustomed to long stretches without electronic communication. Every day had the possibility for a little bit of adventure, a little bit of pilgrimage. I felt pressed up against the wildness of life, close to fear and surprise and wonder. I processed life through my journal rather than my phone.

This week of Sabbath from headphones and radio has been a recovery of this sense of pilgrimage, but now the pilgrimage happens in my very own city. I have paid attention to sun and sidewalk, leaves and birds, friends and squirrels, music and noise.

Sometimes this is very difficult. On Saturday night before the concert at Symphony Hall, I eat dinner by myself in the Prudential Center, in a big corridor where people are spaced out and I feel safe to unmask. I eat without plugging in, without being on my phone. I notice each person who stares at me. I have to choose this awkwardness of encountering people, over the comfort of shutting them out. And every so often, I receive a gift, like the disarming presence of the Minnie-Mouse-adorned child who walks over in curiosity.

Other times, I want to shut out my emotions by blasting the car radio and singing along, even when I’m not in the mood for loud music. I want its numbing effect, but am faced instead with reality. I am surprised during one quiet morning walk to notice just how much the bass emanating from a car radio permeates the atmosphere. I am becoming more sensitive to rhythms within and around me.

During this week of making music acoustically instead of relying on YouTube and Spotify, I have discovered new chords on guitar: am7 is a favorite. I have also discovered how much I long for a piano, and I buy a weighted electric keyboard off Craigslist that will suit my room well. I am singing more instead of relying on others to sing for me.

This week has reminded me of deep truths. I am enough. We are enough. And it has opened new perspectives, especially in my interviews with two people who practice deep attention to listening in their own lives. These interviews are too rich and too personal for me to unpack fully in this space, but here are some questions I am sitting with:

What if what we’re seeking after isn’t silence, per say, but attention? This kind of deep attention can happen during stillness, during song, even during daily activities. Perhaps it is a spaciousness that does not correspond so much to decibel level, but quality of presence.

What if perfection is not at all about what we think it is? Can it be something different from being conventionalized?

What can we gain from being open to what is given to us: allowing someone else to choose the music we hear, and allowing ourselves to fall into the experience, rather than cyclically self-selecting things we know we enjoy?

How is the work of the artist, and the path therein of putting aside ego, akin to preserving Sabbath space?

How can our prayer be a listening for what is already happening?

Can you feel the silence?