Antarctic Moments

The Gift of Silence and Solitude

​“Sometimes one of the greatest gifts we can give to others—and to ourselves—is Antarctic stillness - permission to be quiet and alone without guilt or explanation. Even the cosmic mind of the universe—even God—has an Antarctic side: vast, silent, uninhabitable, and yet full of hidden life.”

— Leila M., spiritual counselor and grief companion

My friends tell me that, when I shut down emotionally, I become Antarctic—silent, uninhabitable by others, wrapped in a chill that keeps people at bay. I respond that there’s lots of life in me—thriving, deep-sea, bioluminescent life—but it lives under layers of ice, and you need patience (and maybe snowshoes) to find it. Truth be told, I need to be alone.  

It got me thinking about how important it is to have Antarctic moments—those stretches of stillness and solitude where life rearranges itself beneath the surface, where quiet is not absence but sanctuary. And in those moments, it’s important not to be so relational—at least not in the extroverted, conversational sense. The deepest connections sometimes happen in silence, when you're simply breathing alongside the unseen.

And then I began to wonder: isn’t there a side of God that is Antarctic, too?

In open and relational (process) theology, God is often described in warm terms—loving, interactive, deeply involved in the becoming of each creature. But might there be another side? A side of God that is distant, silent, even uninhabitable—at least by us? A private side, untouched by the chaos of the world, not because of apathy, but because of depth and mystery.

I thought of Whitehead’s idea of the primordial nature of God—"neither great nor small," he writes, "because it arises out of no actual world." It contains no components by which we might measure or compare. Within it dwell what he calls "eternal objects"—pure potentialities, possibilities not yet actualized. Penguins of thought, you might say. Quietly circling, waiting for the ice to crack. Here's the quote from Process and Reality:

"The absolute standard of such intensity is that of the primordial nature of God, which is neither great nor small because it arises out of no actual world. It has within it no components which are standards of comparison."

Indeed, in Whitehead's philosophy this side of God is non-temporal. The categories of time and space do not apply to it. All that we can say is "not great or small."

Whitehead's philosophy there is more to God than this. There is indeed a more extroverted relationality: God acting in the world through loving lures and responding to the world, moment by moment, with lovingkindness. There is a side of God - Whitehead calls it the consequent nature of God - which does indeed arise out of the actual world and includes the world within its very constitution. This is the side so often emphasized in open and relational (process) theology.

Still, there is this quiet side, too.  Maybe this side of God doesn’t speak or console.  Maybe its silence is a kind of sanctuary, too—a space where even God rests from being God-in-relation, and feels what is possible. I wouldn’t say it’s God shutting down emotionally, as if the world were too much to bear. Rather, I would say it’s God resting in divine solitude—a holy stillness untouched by the noise of becoming, where potentialities drift like icebergs, vast and waiting.

Maybe that matters—for us. Maybe it’s a gift to know that not everything, not even God, must be available all the time. That silence is not abandonment. That uninhabitability is not absence.  But there is sacredness in privacy, in depth, in the frozen places where life is gathering strength beneath the ice.

We all have our human need for Antarctic moments. Sometimes they are simply moments of solitude and silence, which are good in their own right. And sometimes our need for them is a matter of desperation. Moments when we pull back to survive. Moments when warmth feels dangerous, and silence feels safe. Moments when our love goes underground, not because it is gone, but because it is too precious to expose. We become, in these moments, quiet, like the primordial nature of God, except out of desperation. Here are some circumstances that beckon for Antarctic sensibilities:

• Grieving a deep loss – when words feel empty and solitude offers shelter.
• Recovering from trauma – when safety is found in boundaries and silence.
• Living with depression or emotional exhaustion – when energy is scarce and inner stillness is survival.
• Navigating betrayal or broken trust – when openness feels dangerous and self-protection is wisdom.
• Healing from addiction – when slow, steady re-centering requires distance from overstimulation.
• Surviving burnout – when doing less becomes the only way to remain whole.
• Holding a secret sorrow – when grief is unspoken but real, and cannot yet be shared.
• Re-centering after conflict or overstimulation – when stillness is a path back to clarity.
• Protecting something sacred within – when not every truth or tenderness can be explained or exposed.
• Being misunderstood or mislabeled – when words will not fix the gap and self-possession becomes sanctuary.

In these moments we are, at least at some level, unavailable to others, It  is important to honor the unavailability of others, too. To truly love other people—and to love ourselves—we must learn to respect their need for Antarctic moments. Not everyone blooms in the spotlight. Not every healing happens out loud. Sometimes, love looks like giving space. Sometimes, presence means quiet understanding rather than intervention. When someone pulls back, becomes still, or seems distant, we don’t need to panic. We can choose reverence over reaction. We can say: This is their sanctuary now. I will not intrude. I will trust the life beneath the ice. And in doing so, we offer what love so often forgets to give: room to breathe. Room to become. Room to be sacred in silence.

Antarctica: A Scholarly Discussion
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Melvyn Bragg and his guests discuss the history of Antarctica.The most southerly of the continents is the bleakest and coldest place on Earth. Almost entirely covered in ice, Antarctica spends much of the winter in total darkness.Antarctica was first named in the second century AD by the geographer Marinus of Tyre, who was one of many early geographers to speculate about the existence of a huge southern landmass to balance the known lands of northern Europe. But it wasn't until the nineteenth century that modern man laid eyes on the continent. In the intervening two hundred years the continent has been the scene for some of the most famous - and tragic - events of human exploration. In 1959 an international treaty declared Antarctica a scientific reserve, set aside for peaceful use by any nation willing to subscribe to the terms of the agreement. With: Jane Francis, Professor of Paleoclimatology at the University of Leeds; Julian Dowdeswell. Director of the Scott Polar Research Institute and Professor of Physical Geography at the University of Cambridge; David Walton, Emeritus Professor at the British Antarctic Survey and Visiting Professor at the University of Liverpool. Producer: Thomas Morris.