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It was the classic city dwellers' folly: "We need some peace and quiet!" I decreed, whisking my husband and dog up to the Catskill Mountains for a tranquil country weekend. It was quiet all right, there in our rented cabin in the woods. So quiet we were terrified, and spent the night startling at every crack betraying a murderous woodsman creeping closer. Even the dog paced around growling all night. I could practically hear her inner monologue, pitched in a Woody Allen-ish tone: "I can't be out here in the country! There's no where to walk! How will they order Chinese food for me to beg for?" Pace pace pace growl.

It's a strange thing to be so unaccustomed to silence. To associate the sounds of leaves rustling and one's own heartbeat with ominous moments in horror movies. And that's just external quiet -- how many of us can imagine taking a vow of silence ourselves? We so often go through our days in a din, our ears plugged with music, our mouths talking talking talking. Wouldn't silence keep us from communicating, prevent us from connecting with our thoughts, and, you know, scare the crap out of us?

Writer Jeremy Mesiano-Crookston posed this question (sort of) to the Trappist Monks of Oka Abbey, in Quebec. Trappist Monks are known for being the only Western order that practices silence (it's not technically a "vow of silence," as he explains). Mesiano-Crookston explains that it was "their dedication to the enshrinement of silence" that compelled him to reach out to them. He wanted to know how the silence works, and what it does for them. So he interviewed them -- via email, of course.

Their answers are illuminating: "The silence does make me aware of my inner workings, however, what we call in the monastery, 'self-knowledge.'...Silence seems to keep me from idealizing myself...I've become very attuned to the sound of bird-song, the wind, water running through the pipes, identifying unseen monks by the sound of their footsteps—just paying attention to my surroundings."