A world of sounds/silence
2025/05/20
I attended my first yoga class at age 13.
Kari and I sat next to each other, nervously looking forward to the newness of this activity. It was then that I was introduced to meditation, or intentional stillness, but my mind was restless and I had a hard time focusing on nothing.
It clicked when I realized I could focus on the sounds I heard while in position. The cars outside, rustling of the leaves, a lone fly in the room, throats clearing and deep breaths, voices next door. It calmed me, and it allowed me to think of nothing, which was a great relief.
It seems that being offline is a lifestyle gaining popularity. I’ve been semi-offline, on and off, for a while now. I forgot how solitude, stillness, and silence were vital.
Welcoming a world of sounds and silence lifted me from this modern loneliness inflicted by the shallow replacements of human interaction so many of us are accustomed to. I have been constantly connected to everything and everyone ever since my teen years. Though, I have to mention, my Internet usage as a teen was much different.
My mom is a disciplined and committed person. This meant that my childhood was ordered by strict rules, one of them being only being allowed to use the Internet or WiFi for 30 minutes a day. Obviously, I found ways around it, but most of my weekday afternoons were occupied by music I had downloaded, and the solitude of my room. Even then, I was aware of how beneficial this time was for me. I wrote, drew, and studied without any distractions. I would craft or start new art projects.
This state of flow and solitude was utterly and completely rejected when I reached the threshold of adulthood. I wondered why I felt so lost and anxious, although I had “succeeded” in so many ways. No job, no amount of money, no amount of friends could make up for it.
Being offline is partially a natural thing for me at this point. I run my blog because I want to share my thoughts in a meaningful way, and because I like to write. It’s not analog media, but it feels like it, and it’s enough for me.
I’m currently reading Digital Minimalism by Cal Newport. If editing your relationship with technology interests you, this book is wonderful. Newport suggests a lifestyle that limits digital convenience in order to optimize its usefulness (you need to read it).
I deleted Instagram a while ago, and recently a few trivial apps (Pinterest, CoStar, Mercari, etc) and YouTube. My goal with Instagram is to post, so I can download it again when I want to do so. I can access YouTube and Netflix on my laptop, which is a much more intentional act than scrolling until I find the “perfect” video to do a 5 minute task. I don’t intend to use Substack or TikTok anymore. If I really need anything again, I can just redownload it.
Lovely Imane looking up flowers during a walk.
I still pick up my phone when I feel a twinge of boredom out of habit, and it makes me feel so off to see all of my dopamine-quick-fix-seeking tics highlighted. In an era where convenience and productivity are king, I almost feel guilty of doing things one at a time, slowly, normally. At the same time, it’s making me realize how often I try to conceal my thoughts with music, podcasts, and episodes of whatever while I’m alone. Only now am I conscious of this habit, how it’s subtly overloading and draining me mentally. What’s scary is realizing how many little sounds I forgot were beautiful and soothing. To be honest, I’m only a few days in hardcore digital minimalism (been soft core for weeks though). I have never felt such peace and ease, and it is so trippy to realize how much time there is in a day, having all digital distractions deleted. I’m focused on doing the thing I’m doing, omitting the background podcast or video essay to keep me entertained - why do I always feel the need to be entertained?
The whoosh of cars, the crinkling of bicycle wheels, the thunderous thuds of a delivery truck unloading, the distant noise of a construction site, elderly women chatting, a crow digging into garbage, someone sweeping their porch, the onions sizzling in the pan, the crackling of ice cubes in my glass, my footsteps in the kitchen. Why were these sounds optional to me?
I have always loved visiting my grandmother’s house, and have said often that time stops there. I have the same feeling now, at home, by myself, and I am so glad and relieved.
I am thoroughly gratified by this experience.
Thank you for reading.
Mizuki
