READING 12 ︎︎︎ Sally Rooney, Intermezzo

(Moment of Silence)

At Haverford College, where I went to school, silence held a kind of ceremonial authority. A historically Quaker institution, it carried forward certain Friends’ traditions—not as relics, but as rhythms. Every class, every assembly, every community gathering began and ended with silence. Not prayer, or announcements, or calls to order. Just a moment, a soft kind of bracket, a breath around the event.

I hadn’t thought about it in years, not really. But the other day, in the din of a work meeting, I remembered suddenly and viscerally. The contrast between the fluorescent urgency of our agenda and the spaciousness of those quiet beginnings. The idea that we might allow time to arrive before we begin.

The Quakers, or the Religious Society of Friends, hold silence as more than etiquette—it is the ground from which insight emerges. In Quaker worship, the silence is not empty but expectant. It’s a collective listening, a shared stillness in which one might hear what they call “that of God” within. The silence is both individual and communal, inward and outward. It isn’t just rest; it’s a form of attention.

I’ve been wondering what might happen if I brought that kind of silence back into my life. Not the heroic silence of retreats or meditation challenges, but just small sips. A pause before starting dinner. A breath before saying hello. A moment at the threshold, between car and door, between work and home, between agitation and encounter.

With my kids, I imagine it would feel awkward at first. A minute of enforced quiet? But maybe it would become a ritual. A bellwether of transition. I think about the science—the shift in the nervous system, the return to parasympathetic calm. A moment of silence can slow the heart rate, deepen the breath, even reset the mind’s chatter. Biochemically, it works. Spiritually, it listens.

What if silence was a kind of generosity? A gift we give each other, even fleetingly. What if, instead of filling every space with chatter or instruction or efficiency, we allowed room to arrive, to be still, to be open? 

I think I’ll try it. A moment with my children, before we move from one thing to the next. A moment with my colleagues, even if awkward. A moment at the beginning of writing this, and another, now, at the end.

Felix Gonzalez-Torres. "Untitled" (Perfect Lovers). 1991

it’s about love, yes—but also about time as relational, about stillness-not-stasis, about lives lived in parallel.