How To Have Better Conversations? — Learn To Be Comfortable With Silence

I hate small talk with a passionate hatred…It is a waste of time to see people who only have a social surface to show. I will make every effort to find out the real person, but if I can’t, then I am upset and cross.
May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

. . .

Growing up, I used to believe that silence was awkward. In the social circles that I was engaged in, there were several adjectives to describe it: uncomfortable, dreadful, weird.

And yet, amidst this perpetual fleeing from any potentially embarrassing moment, there was never some pondering of all the wonderful things that silence can be: a moment of deep introspection, to recenter oneself, to feel, to be. To let the small stuff pass through, so that what really matters can come out.

It was only with time that I learned to honour and even, embrace what Paul Simon lyrically described in his song — The Sound of Silence.

. . .

A few days back, I was driving some friends to the airport, and opposite to what I expected, the first thirty minutes of the ride were totally silent. We could blame, partially, the circumstances: it was six-thirty in the morning and a gloomy, rainy day.

But, when one is not aware, it can be relatively easy to fall prey to the questions that incessantly linger in our heads after a brief quietude.

Why won’t you talk to me?
I’m here, can’t you see me?
Have I done anything wrong?

All of which can boil down to: Do you still like me? Am I still worthy?

. . .

On the Myers-Briggs scale, I am half an extrovert and half an introvert. I have an equal need for solitude and introspection as I do for a healthy dose of interaction with people. I am recharged by stimulating, invigorating conversations.

But, like May Sarton was, I am increasingly put off by small talk. The conversations that energise me are those that dare to go below the surface, where true connection can happen and where all of us involved dare to tear our walls down.

And so, as I was driving and contemplating the sun rising over the horizon, May Sarton’s words came back to me.

It was not the first time that I became aware and stopped myself short of initiating small talk simply to break the silence. And the reason that I stopped myself short was that I was aware of how much it bothers me, and how awkward and forced it can feel, much more so than the silence that we’re supposed to be terrified of.

So then, I questioned myself.

Why was this silence bothering me? And can I be sure these thoughts (not being liked, approved of, or anything of the sort) are true?

As it turns out, they are not.

. . .

Being a writer, I place great value in words. When I did Gary Chapman’s exercises on The Five Love Languages, words came out as one of my highest-scoring ways of expressing and receiving love.

But just as important as the words, is the intention — where the words are coming from.

When we are focused on avoiding silence, as I was at that moment with my thoughts racing faster than the vehicle I was driving, we are focused on avoiding certain sensations that silence brings, like doubts about our worthiness or value as we are not getting the affirmations that we need. That can be particularly challenging for those of us who place a high emphasis on words.

Our mistake is that when we do this, we are placing our approval in someone else’s hands. We are giving our power away.

Becoming aware of this helps us take our power back.

As we do, we can accept silence, and when we learn to be comfortable with it, we learn to communicate from a different place, because we accept that we no longer need to be talking all the time. We’ve let go of all the underlying needs that come with ceaseless talk — proving ourselves, feeling validated, or avoid being seen as boring or too serious.

It is only then that we can begin to express ourselves from an authentic place.

Otherwise, since we are focused on a fear-based intention, our small talk builds higher walls, and those steps we take to placate fear end up exacerbating it.

. . .

Cruising through the road, the clouds began to dissipate. And the same happened in my head, too. I relieved myself of the pressure of always needing to be the one who initiated any interesting conversation.

I remembered those moments in which silence said all that needed to be said between me and a loved one: a date looking at the spectacular sunset in Rivière-du-Loup, another one listening to mellow piano tunes in the East Village. Both times I felt initially resistant, but I ended up surrendering to the flow.

I also remembered William Burroughs, who said: Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalising.

I kept driving, and once we arrived at our destination, plenty of time in advance, we still found time to have breakfast, and coffee, and a magnificent conversation.

It seems like silence was what we all needed to recharge, to process, to let go of any turmoil that was taking place in our internal worlds and create space for new things to happen.

Of course, it is equally possible that some people will be uncomfortable with this approach. Some people are frightened to death of showing anything that goes beyond the surface of themselves. I know because I used to be one of them. I had my phone full of conversations, but none of them were meaningful. I had my day stacked with meetings, booked solid all day, every day, but I hardly took the time to connect with the person who was in front of me.

So, when I find somebody who struggles with the same thing, I can only have compassion. For it takes courage to be willing to connect. To be open to seeing somebody else and let ourselves be seen.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Now, when I have the temptation of making small talk, I recall the quote imprinted on a T-shirt that a good friend often wears:

Do not say anything…unless it improves silence.

And so the process begins, all over again.

—

This post was previously published on Change Becomes You.

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