Connection through a fart

I can see you.

Maybe you are shaking your head in astonishment now? Maybe a thought like, “What is this lady talking about?” Or just blanking out for a moment and then a “häääää?”

But — I got your attention, right?

Pic by Kristina Flour / Unsplash

In that way, words are powerful.

Nevertheless, what the headline actually should tell you is that true or deepest connections are made in silence. Or at least — when there are no words. Remember moments where you found connection although — or because — there were no words.

Maybe when you rocked your child to sleep?

Maybe when you sat with your horse, listening to the sound of ground, delicious hay, smelling that irresistible scent, witnessing soft clouds of breath coming from your horse’s nostrils, dissolving into the ice-cold winter air.

Or walking outside, being embraced by every shade of green, the sounds, the sensations — just you and the forest, one.

Or... a fart. (I’ll tell you the sweet story soon.)

Words are not necessary to feel each other, to understand life, yourself, and others deeply. In fact, all those fountains of words can even hinder connection. Why?

In some cultures, for example, it is considered impolite to immediately respond after someone has spoken. Instead, one first allows the words to dance in the space of silence, in acknowledgment. Only then does one speak again.

For me personally, it is rather difficult to be with groups of people where everybody is talking. Whether I am involved or observing strangers, my observation — or strange feeling — is often this:

"Humans are talking so much, too much, as if they believe there is no other way to connect than through this learned language and form. It’s sometimes so much blablabla, missing completely the totality of the moment. Missing entirely our feelings, our senses, our perception. This very precious, rich moment is suffocated, drained, overlaid by these permanent, fast, continuous sounds — sometimes noise — that come out of this species’ mouths."

Of course I use words- as here written or in well chosen conversations- but I try to use them carefully, try to use them to get closer to something which is beyond word. Which is a little futile, I know, but I try anyway knowing that something as limited, known, as words cannot encompass the totality of direct, unknown, experience.

But to a bigger extent, as a passionate observer, I feel that “typical human thing” often draining. Even in a moment where I talk a lot, there comes a point where an inner voice or diffuse feeling whispers „Stop. its draining, pause" and there’s always the sense that through all those words, we kind of building a wall, trying to hide from something, or flee something, or cover something. And don’t recognise it, as talking is the „normal“ human thing.

For most people, it is awkward to be silent.

You know those strange moments when suddenly the words run out and nobody continues speaking?

In that void, feelings come up. That could be feeling awkward, uncomfortable with the silence. That could be thoughts like, “Uhh, I’m boring now, what should I say?” or a fear of appearing strange if we don’t talk.

It is the silence that invites us to connect with our own inner movements and feelings, no matter what comes up — and it is the silence that connects us, as there is a high chance the other person in that void has something human going on too. It’s a chance to connect in a deeper way if you slow down and feel yourself within the conversation, and in the pauses between words.

Have you ever asked yourself: Why are we so terrified of the void that opens when words cease?Just look. What comes up?

Aren’t we sometimes running from ourselves, from our inner sensations, by thinking and speaking a lot? Sometimes it seems as if it doesn’t even matter what we say — but that we say something, in order to run from ourselves. We don’t want to feel, thus we speak and speak and talk and talk.

And we call it connection.

The next time you have such an awkward, embarrassing, or weird pause within a conversation, let it be there for a few moments. Don’t continue talking just to say “something.”

Feel.

Connect with yourself — and then you could even connect more deeply with the other by saying, “May I ask you something? Do you also get a strange sensation when there’s suddenly silence in a conversation?” and see what unfolds from there. Maybe a less superficial, deeper, more profound conversation — which sprang from shared silence.

I can only speak for myself, but the strongest moments of connection I’ve ever experienced were in interactions or situations where there were no words at all.

In dancing.

In being fixed to a tandem master rushing at 200 km/h toward earth after jumping out of a plane.

In making love.

In touching skin or fur.

In listening.

In observing my animals, the sky, leafs dancing in swirls down from branches, kissing the earth.

In that short glimpse when eyes meet — losing myself in the eyes of another, stranger, lover, or friend.

Allowing music to enter all of me.

I remember one especially unfolding moment: I was sitting in a restaurant with someone beloved, feeling hurt, pain, jealousy — not able to keep up the conversation — and in the silent space, allowed by both of us, with just our eyes resting in each other, there was a literally all-embracing connection.

Love.

Aliveness.

And here we come to the fart.

After my wonderful mare Josi died, maybe two months later, I was able to return for a visit to the stable that had welcomed her and me — with all our struggles, insecurities, illnesses.The owners, Miriam and Thomas, are marvellous, direct, fun, open, and loving — and so are their two boys, around 2.5 and 5 years old.The older one — Lukas — had a very strong connection to Josi and asked me many questions about where she is now that she’s dead — and also whether I can still hear her.

On this day — a cold winter day — I wore a sort of wool beanie with a strange thing on top, resembling an antenna. I told him that I can still hear her (which I can, though not literally), and especially well with that Antenna Beanie. Of course, he wanted to try it on, to hear Josi and connect.

I gave it to him.

He had trouble listening.

As young boys can be very active — running, talking, screaming like cute little mosquitos — and (please forgive me) after a while, this can get exhausting, I told him that to receive and connect, there needs to be silence. As Josi meant so much to him, we practiced silence together, listening intentionally to the space.

Later — the sun had already set, it was pitch black except for one light — we sat together after stable work, four adults and two kids, covered in cozy blankets. Lukas told his parents about my beanie, the silence, and Josi.

Someone — I can’t remember who — suggested we make a game:

Everyone had to go silent — no words — and whoever broke the silence had to pay 1 Euro.

We counted down: 3, 2, 1 — silence.

We looked at each other, smiling, suppressing giggles, trying to relax our faces.

Maybe it lasted 30 seconds, maybe a minute, until...

Suddenly, Thomas, grinning mischievously,  lifted his butt lightly from the chair — and farted!

A fart which — in the all-encompassing silence, even the animals quiet — sounded like the solo of a trombone.

All of us broke down in laughter.

Shared laughter, almost hysterical.

And funnily enough, I was the one who spoke first — when I found my breath again.

Maybe because it was such a cheerful, lighthearted, connected moment, that words naturally formed from there.

And I lost the game — with one of the best possible feelings: great joy.

And deep connection.

Through silence and a fart.