The silence at the end of the workshop
- Noula Diamantopoulos
- 9 hours ago
- 2 min read
Some moments stay with me long after a workshop ends.
Not because something dramatic happened, but because something quiet appeared that I cannot quite explain.
Sometimes it is only later that a question begins to form.
This is one of those moments.
On the final afternoon of a three-day workshop exploring expressive arts and existentialism, we gathered once again in a circle.
Over those days the circle had quietly become our place of beginning and our place of returning. It held our reflections, our drawings, our questions, and the dreams people shared each morning when we came together.
On that final afternoon the circle was simply there to close our time.
I invited everyone to close their eyes. I closed mine as well.
I began speaking, reflecting on fragments from the days we had shared together. Small moments came to mind, something someone had said, an image that had appeared in a drawing, the quiet courage of someone staying with an uncomfortable feeling.
And then something unexpected happened.
I stopped speaking.
The silence stretched longer than I would normally allow. I was aware of the group sitting there with their eyes closed.
Inside myself it felt as though something was still continuing, just not through words.
No words were coming.
What I noticed instead was that my body had began to gently rock, a slow rhythmic movement. I hadn’t decided to do this. It simply seemed to happen.
So I remained there for a while, aware of the silence and the subtle movement of my body.
Eventually words returned and I softly concluded our time together.
When I opened my eyes and looked around the circle, everyone seemed to be resting somewhere quiet within themselves. The room had softened.
Gradually people began to move again. Eyes opened. Chairs shifted. Conversations returned as people began saying their goodbyes.
And that was how the workshop ended.
The next day something occurred to me.
Each morning of the workshop we had begun by sharing our dreams from the night before.
There was one simple agreement.
We would not interpret them.
No searching for symbols.No trying to explain what the dream meant.
Each person simply shared the dream and the rest of us listened.
And then a thought came quietly to me.
If we shared our dreams together each morning during those three days, could that simple act have invited something else into the space with us?
Perhaps even those who came before us.
The question that arrived was this:
Are our dreams perhaps one of the ways our ancestors continue to speak with us?
Was I communing with them at that moment when silence stepped in and mybody began to rock?
Were our ancestors journeying with us throughout these three days because we invite and welcomed our dreams to greet us each morning?
The most meaningful moments rarely arrive as answers.
Sweet dreams
Love
Noula
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