Three seconds of silence

In radio there is a term for silence that lasts too long. We call it dead air. Three seconds without a voice, without music. Enough for a listener to think something has broken. Enough for my palms to sweat, my heart to beat faster and my eyes to search in panic for the cause. Playlist, desk, buttons, technician.

Where is the mistake? What did I press wrong? Has the power gone out?

We have learned to fear those seconds. To watch them closely. To fill them with repeated announcements, jingles, the weather forecast. And yet sometimes silence would say more than anything we have prepared.

When did we last stop?

I think of conversations about subjects that are anything but simple. Of a friend saying out loud, for the first time, that after giving birth she did not recognize herself. Of a father describing the waiting room of an oncology ward. Of the moment after a guest says something that cost them time… life… people.

That is when you don’t need the next question. You need three seconds. You need to let the sentence sink, let the listener hear it to the end, let them fall quiet for a moment, too.

Not long ago I spoke with a mother about how she became a mum. She waited for one, and got two. Do we understand that? Maybe. Do we offer compassion, or a chance to find ourselves in that story? Most likely the latter.

We live in a time when we don’t listen. We wait for our turn to say something. As soon as possible. As fast as possible. As loud as possible.

We need silence. In a world that screams, that splits, that catches fire, that glitters with ads and pretty faces – pick me!!! – there are no people who stop to put a hand on your shoulder. And yet here we are, side by side, face to face, more and closer than ever before.

“Listen…”, my guest said. And before she went on with her story, I heard her breathe in, the lump in her throat, the breath out. Brave, and so heavy that I felt the weight in my own lap. I would be lying if I said I carried it with her through the conversation. I carried only a small part.

And in front of me, the recording running. A voice that stays. And a thin horizontal line after every listen.

Breath in, the lump in the throat, breath out. Exactly three seconds. The three seconds that were needed. For her, for me, for you (when one day you hear that story).

Nothing stopped then. Nothing was dead. Everything was right there. When you breathe in and it pulls you into that depth, the lump goes down your throat, deep inside you. So that you are there, so that you hear, even though there is no sound. But the echo is louder than ever. From her, to me, to you, and on from you.

Listen

. . .

or read. I have put three dots here, one for each of those seconds.

Let the story pass through, whoever’s story you are listening to. Let yourself feel it, hear it. Be there. Wait.

Not your turn. Not the next question. It takes three seconds… of life between us.

Dead air, we call it. To me it feels like the most alive part of the show.