I increasingly think many people are more uncomfortable with silence than they realise. I’m not referring to extended retreats or deliberate periods of solitude. I mean the ordinary pauses that occur throughout a day: waiting for a train, sitting quietly before a meeting begins, walking somewhere alone, or travelling without immediately filling the space with music, podcasts or messages.

The impulse to occupy these moments can be remarkably strong. A phone appears almost automatically. Attention searches for something to consume. The movement often happens so quickly that it barely feels like a decision. What interests me is what these habits reveal.

Silence has a way of bringing the condition of the mind into view. Restlessness becomes easier to notice. Unfinished concerns return to the surface. Thoughts that were previously hidden beneath activity begin asking for attention. Many people who seem perfectly composed discover, when external stimulation falls away, that inwardly they are carrying far more agitation than they realised.

Perhaps this is one reason contemplative traditions have consistently treated silence as something worth cultivating. Silence does not necessarily provide answers, but it does create conditions in which certain questions become harder to avoid.

Modern life offers unprecedented opportunities for distraction. Much of that technology is useful, enjoyable and often beneficial. Yet it can also make it easier to postpone encounters with ourselves indefinitely. A person can remain occupied for years without noticing what is driving that need for occupation.

This may explain why even brief moments of stillness can feel unexpectedly restorative. The relief is not always the result of gaining something new. Sometimes it comes from stepping outside the constant demands placed upon attention and discovering that the mind settles, at least for a while, once those demands loosen their grip.