My boyfriend told me not too long ago that his cousin would be gifting his family with a ewe at the end of the year, and I had to smile at the irony.

New Year, New Ewe.

As the old year fades away there always seems to be a stirring of raw, nascent impetus in the collective soul of the world. And what exactly does this impetus fuel or toward what is it directed? It stokes the driving fire that each human being has to discover his purpose. It is the impetus for human flourishing. Unfortunately, in this sullied culture of discontent we have developed such a warped and inconspicuous understanding of what it really means to flourish. Aristotle said that flourishing can only be achieved with reason and the acquisition of virtue, so yeah, it would seem that we have some work to do before we can become fully realized, fully flourished humans.

But as the clock strikes midnight and the world puts an arbitrary period on the passage of time, we still cannot shake the need to freshen our primordial slate. Tired adages and flattering dictums sprinkle across social media with bright colors and flashy promises of health, wealth, and happiness to come. We make impossible goals and champion impossible causes and aspire to impossible dreams. And why? Because whether we concede or identify with the political or social semantics, we are a pro-life people. We long for birth, for growth, and yes, for flourishing. We are seasonal by the very disposition of our souls. Our interior natures rise and fall to respond to the changing circumstances of life. Our liturgies follow cycles of various devotions, meditations, and traditions to ensure that our hearts receive a general education in the ways of worship.

But the seasons that most of us tend to acknowledge serve no objective. We mark them with pumpkin spice, superbowls, and hunting licences. And the next thing you know it somehow becomes indecorous to wear white after Labor Day and yet suitable to stock Valentine’s candy in December. It appears at times that we are living in some kind of irrational Wonderland:

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn’t. And contrary wise, what is, it wouldn’t be. And what it wouldn’t be, it would. You see?” Alice in Wonderland

And perhaps the problem is less that we humans lack the capacity for reason or sensibility and more that we are too encumbered by deafening hullabaloo to get a thought in edgewise. Think about it. The holidays are anything but quiet. Instead of silent and holy nights we have sleepless and fluorescent nights. In a world full of notifications, a world where you receive constant feedback about whether people like or dislike every choice, purchase, or mantra that you make-in a world full of din and sin-it can be so difficult to slow down, survey the landscape of our hearts, and actually listen for that still, small voice that speaks this funny little thing we call truth.

When the movie, A Quiet Place, came out last year, society was (ironically) rendered speechless. Ninety-nine percent of the dialogue is completely silent, and yet, rather than boring the audience, the story does nothing short of captivate. But why is this? Firstly, it captivates because the plot is enthralling, but there is a second reason that is perhaps even more compelling. I think it’s quite possible (were this not fiction) that the audience would sooner believe in the presence of an alien invasion than in the ability of human beings to remain in silence. It is not the science fiction aspect that seems so fanciful, but the silent factor. For many of us, the idea and practice of quiet time is simply a game remembered from our days of youth. But in this movie, a movie full of themes of fatherhood and family, dignity and life, we are given a glimpse of what it might be like if we approached our neighbor with unmitigated vision, a vision unqualified by opinionated rhetoric and unbridled of preconceptions, misconceptions, and contraceptions. It’s a movie that shows us that we can do hard things, and that hard things are worth doing.

There is some kind of beautiful correlation between silence and life. A seed buried deep in the crushing bowels of the earth sprouts and quietly weaves its way to the surface. Likewise, conception of a child occurs in the hushed recesses of a woman’s daily life. Fertilization does not occur until minutes, or hours, or even days after intimacy, maybe while she is washing the dishes, or running a meeting at the office, or going on a road trip. Generation is always the fruit of silence. And so what would it mean if we took this seriously? That is, if we used our silence to bring life to one another?

This requires practice; practice in presence. We need to be able to sit across from another person and let ourselves simply exist, let my existence exist before your existence, my silence before your silence, until the silence melts together into one. And that moment, the moment when the silence becomes one-there is the true vulnerability, a vulnerability that is too rich and too bashful for words. It is a vulnerability that says, “Here I am. I cannot hide. This is me.” And in that moment of consummation, that is the osmosis of silence, the transfer of truth through the semi-permeable membrane of our cultural biases.

I was in my college dorm room many years ago when one of my neighbors walked in and sat down at my desk. She had just returned from class and I was studying, and for some strange reason, we decided not to speak. We sat there for half an hour or maybe even a full hour and didn’t utter a syllable. We simply dwelled together and equally shared the time that was spread between us. And yet, when I got up to leave for class, I couldn’t stop myself from saying goodbye.  And the silence was shattered and we were shaken from that place of rest we had tended so beautifully. To this day I wish I had walked away without saying a word. I wish it could have been a perfect moment of silence.

Silence is reverent. We instinctively know this. It’s why our politicians and preachers lead us in organized “moments of silence” when tragedy strikes. It’s why we lovingly watch our children as they sleep. It’s why we fold our hands at a funeral. It’s why our forefathers fought for freedom of speech-not so that we could say whatever we want whenever we want, but rather, that our silence may be free of tyranny.

So I encourage you to try this as you dust off the fresh powder of a new year. Don’t always feel the need to fill the silence. Practice the “art of being.” Settle into the presence of the other. And then, in the off chance that we are ever invaded by a band of “noise-killing” aliens, well, we will be a little more prepared.