"Sometimes, even just walking down the street, I slip into a quiet moment—like the world softens for a second. No noise, no pressure, just breath and pavement. It’s strange how something so small can feel so nourishing, like my soul took a sip of water."

---

Two Kinds of Silence
​

There are at least two kinds of silence: outer silence and inner silence.

Outer silence is the absence of noise—the hush of a quiet room, the stillness of early morning, the pause between words. It creates space. It opens a door.
But inner silence is something else. It’s not just the lack of sound, but the presence of awareness. It is the quiet within us that listens—not only to the world, but to the heart. This inner silence is what mindfulness cultivates: a calm, alert attention to what is, without judgment or rush.

Inner silence does not always require outer silence. We can carry it with us even in a crowd, even in the noise. It’s a way of being—receptive, attentive, grounded. It is in this inner silence that we may hear the subtle promptings of the sacred, the gentle nudges of becoming.
​
Silence, then, is not empty. It is alive with listening.

​Solitariness

​"Religion is what the individual does with his own solitariness. It runs through three stages, if it evolves to its final satisfaction. It is the transition from God the void to God the enemy, and from God the enemy to God the companion...Thus religion is solitariness; and if you are never solitary, you are never religious. Collective enthusiasms, revivals, institutions, churches, rituals, bibles, codes of behaviour, are the trappings of religion, its passing forms."

- Alfred North Whitehead, Religion in the Making

​Finding God in Quiet Moments

​Process philosophers and theologians often emphasize relationality—the idea that we are constituted by our relationships with others, with the natural world, and with God. It can give the impression that a life well-lived is one of constant engagement: being with people, building community, collaborating, listening, helping, loving. Apart from sleeping, one might think, the good life is a thoroughly interactive one.

But Alfred North Whitehead reminds us that this is only part of the truth. In Religion in the Making, he insists that religion—authentic, transformative religion--begins in solitariness. He writes: “Religion is what the individual does with his own solitariness.” And this isn’t just a quaint observation. It’s a metaphysical insight into the rhythms of experience. A well-lived life requires solitude, not as escape, but as a depth dimension.

In solitariness we are not absent from the world—we are simply present to it in a different way. We are not relating to others directly, but we are digesting our relations, sifting through impressions, dreams, fears, loves. We are prehending the world from within, allowing space for the divine whisper to be felt, not drowned out by noise or company. It is in these solitary moments that we might encounter "God the Companion"—the spiritual presences that meet us when all distractions fall away.

So yes, relationality is vital. But the silence in which we meet ourselves—and perhaps more than ourselves—is vital too.

In finding solitariness, a person can build it into a normal day through deliberate practices like solitary prayer, meditation, journaling, or walking alone. But solitariness is not only something we must schedule or strive for—it is also quietly woven into the fabric of ordinary life. Often, it helps to recognize those everyday moments where solitariness is already present, waiting to be received, not resisted. These are not empty or wasted times. They are thresholds for reflection, windows into the depths of our lives.
Here are some examples of solitariness in daily life:

1. Waking up before anyone else – when the house is still dark and quiet.
2. Sitting alone with a morning drink – the warmth in your hands, the day not yet begun.
3. Walking alone outside – through a neighborhood, a wooded path, or even a parking lot.
4. Commuting solo – in a car or on public transportation, immersed in thought.
5. Waiting in a doctor’s office – nothing to do but be present.
6. Eating a meal alone – without screens, just you and the food.
7. Doing chores in silence – folding laundry, sweeping the floor, washing dishes.
8. Looking out a window – watching trees move or clouds pass.
9. Taking a shower or bath – enclosed in warmth and water, mind adrift.
10. Listening to music through headphones – letting it move through you.
11. Resting when sick – the body's weakness deepens inner stillness.
12. Reading or writing alone – entering the world of words and imagination.
13. Walking through a cemetery – attuned to memory, silence, mortality.
14. Spending time in nature – even briefly: watching birds, touching a tree.
15. Waiting in line – a hidden pause amid busyness.
16. Lying awake at night – when thoughts and feelings rise unbidden.
17. Taking a solo retreat or time away – to breathe, reflect, reset.
18. Sitting quietly in a place of worship when no one else is there – the hush itself sacred.
19. Looking at old photographs – feeling the ache and tenderness of time.
20. Watching the sunrise or sunset alone – when beauty makes you stop and just be.
    
    

Many of these moments of solitude are also opportunities for mindfulness—that is, for a relaxed and alert attention to what is happening around us, or within us, without judgment.

Mindfulness is neither repression nor expression but rather awareness. It does not force thoughts away, nor does it chase them down. It notices. It receives. It breathes.In the language of process thought, mindfulness can be seen as a way of prehending our occasions of experience more consciously. Each moment is a concrescence—a coming together of past influences, present feeling, and future possibility. When we practice mindfulness, we inhabit this concrescence with a kind of gracious attentiveness. We say, in effect, “Here I am. And here is the world. Let me listen.”

Whether it’s the sensation of water on the skin in a shower, the weight of a mug in the hand, or the sound of wind in the trees during a solitary walk, these quiet moments are invitations to be present—not in order to achieve something, but to be with what is. They are doorways to a deeper kind of knowing, one that comes not through analysis or performance, but through presence.

And in these mindful, solitary moments, we may discover that we are not truly alone. Something--someone, perhaps—meets us there. The Companion. The inward whisper. The Lure. The Sacred. Call it what you will. It doesn’t demand our belief, only our attention. It is a called for response to what is given to our experience; the initial aim of God in the moment at hand.

​A spirit of mindfulness can carry itself forward into the interactive life, where we enter into relations with others in a mindful way—less reactive, more responsive. We begin to sense the contours of a moment with greater clarity. We better know when to listen, when to speak, when to cry, when to laugh--naturally obedient to the call of the moment.

This is not a rigid self-control, but a kind of intuitive grace. The awareness cultivated in solitude ripens into wisdom in relationship. We are no longer pulled so quickly by habit or ego. Instead, we are drawn by a gentler rhythm—what Whitehead might call the lure of becoming, now unfolding not just within us, but between us. We become participants in a kind of relational improvisation, attuned to others not as objects to manage, but as fellow moments of experience, worthy of care.

Mindfulness, then, is not the opposite of relationality—it is its deep preparation. It is what allows us to meet others with spaciousness and sincerity. It helps us offer our presence as a gift, not as a performance. And it supports us in discerning the initial aims that arise in and through relationship: the call to forgive, to resist, to comfort, to celebrate.

In this way, the solitude of mindfulness becomes the seedbed of compassion. And the solitary heart, once opened in silence, becomes a listening heart in the world.