When we enter silence on a daylong of silence, what might come to our attention is the sense of constant interruption.
Silence can be such a foreign mode of being that it might take a while to even make sense of the experience, you are having, sitting there with others and no words, no gazes, no smiles, but simply breathing. Together without the usual form of social contact, together in a new kind of intimacy, that you do not yet know.
Moving out of silence hours later, some share how silence is such a rarity in their lives, not even thought of as a possibility. They talk about the constant interruption of being them, perhaps a life-long mode, which brings both great vitality to their lives, but not many breaks.
Winnicott, a famous child pediatrician and psychiatrist, wrote many years ago about the importance of not interrupting, "impinging on" the little child's experience too often. That the child is taught being from not being constantly interrupted. Allowing an inner spaciousness and, possible, a silence, to dwell in the present moment.
I often think of this piece of wisdom and of, that when we have lived - or live - life with, if not constant, then almost constant interruption, we so long for undisturbed stretches of being. Spending a day in silence might invite that possibility into our lives.
Silence, if even just for one moment.