Turning Down the Noise: Silence, Solitude, and Your Nervous System

It’s hard to Practice Presence when we’re scrolling through social media or some other such thing on a device.

Most of us live with more noise than our brains were built for—constant notifications, background TV, podcasts, traffic, kids, email pings, news alerts. I don't think this noise is news to most people. Even when the room is technically quiet, our minds are still buzzing. When we finally get a moment of actual silence, many people find it unnerving. Their brains just don’t know how to slow down. The silence becomes unnerving and not natural, have you ever heard the phrase, "uncomfortable silence?" The question to ask, uncomfortable for who?

Silence is not just the absence of sound.

Silence is a kind of medicine.

Researchers at Duke Today in an article titled, "How to Turn Down the Noise and Turn Up Your Well-Being," have found that intentional quiet—brief, regular breaks from noise and constant input—can reset our nervous system, help our brains repair, and support better focus, mood, and decision‑making. In other words, silence is a brain healer.

I didn’t need a study to tell me that when I'm in silence my stress levels drop, but it’s nice when the science catches up with what your soul already knows.

What silence actually does to your nervous system

Here’s the simple version.

Your nervous system has two main modes:

• fight/flight (sympathetic) – activated, vigilant, ready to react

• rest/repair (parasympathetic) – calmer, able to digest, heal, and think clearly

Life in our world keeps a lot of us stuck in “almost fight/flight” all the time. Not always full‑blown panic, but a low, constant hum: notifications, background noise, deadlines, headlines, doom‑scrolling. Your body never quite gets the message that it’s allowed to stand down.

Regular doses of quiet—real quiet, not just turning down the TV—act like a reset button.

Studies show that even short periods of silence can:

• lower stress hormones,

• reduce blood pressure and heart rate,

• improve focus and creativity,

• and in some animal studies, even stimulate new cell growth in parts of the brain involved with memory.

You don’t have to remember any of that to benefit from it.

You just have to give your nervous system a chance to experience it.

That’s part of what Old La Sal has done for me.

When the silence is pure, the mountains get bigger

In Old La Sal, there are moments when the quiet is so pure it almost startles you.

There are days when the wind isn’t moving through the junipers, no trucks are passing on the highway, and the inside of the house is still. Then, suddenly, you realize: there is nothing to hear.

That’s when everything else comes alive.

When the noise drops, the mountains seem bigger. The La Sals, which were already huge, suddenly feel “bigger than life,” like they’ve stepped forward somehow. The old valley, with its tumbleweeds and tall grass and scattered shrubs, feels more present. Any picture I’ve taken trying to capture the experience falls short; the camera can’t catch what the silence does to the heart and the soul.

The quiet hits me hardest in the middle of a moonless night.

If I wake up around 2 am in the morning—my favorite time—I’ll sometimes step out onto the front porch. The Milky Way is bright and loud in its own silent way, a smear of stars so dense and vibrant I lose count before I even start. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many stars, they are like a cloud dancing across a deep sky.

Out there, in that silence, the noise in my head finally has somewhere to go.

My blood pressure drops. The world doesn’t seem so big. It becomes a world I can actually hold, a world where the problems of life don’t disappear but shrink back to a size I can think about. The racing thoughts lose their grip. I can finally sift through what really matters.

That’s not just pretty scenery. That’s nervous system healing.

The Duke article talk about scheduled “doses” of quiet—brief breaks where you let your mind and body reset. Old La Sal feels like someone built an entire experience around those breaks. Shhhh, maybe this secret shouldn't get out. Silence, in its purest form, is hard to come by in this commercially driven world.

Morning ritual: coffee and an off switch for your brain

One of the suggestions from the Duke study is to create a morning quiet ritual—some time before screens and demands. A sacred place where your brain can warm up slowly instead of being thrown into the deep end.

At Deer Creek Retreat, that ritual practically writes itself.

You wake up, make a simple pot of coffee or tea, and step out onto the front porch. There’s no cell service here, just the internet connection in the house. Your phone might still be in your pocket, but on silent or in airplane mode, it won't buzz. The La Sal Mountains stretch out in front of you, and the Old La Sal valley opens up like an ocean of land—distant mountain ranges toward Colorado and Telluride, tree lines on each horizon in every direction.

You sit. You hold a warm mug. You breathe.

You don’t have to do anything impressive. You don’t have to pray eloquent prayers or journal for an hour. You just let your brain notice:

• I am not in a hurry.

• The world is still turning without me.

• I am small, and that’s actually a relief.

That’s not laziness. Its the fresh air. That’s your nervous system finally getting permission to downshift. Its connecting to the land, to the wildlife, to what home was always meant to be.

Quiet breaks: porch steps and short walks

The Duke guidance talks about short quiet breaks during the day—moments where you step away from tasks and let your mind idle. Around here, that’s as simple as stepping outside.

My favorite quiet spot is still that front porch. Early morning and night are the sweet spots, but honestly, every time I step out of the house, I try to take it in and I feel a little wave of healing.

Sometimes it’s:

• sitting on the steps for five minutes between emails,

• letting your eyes trace the line of the mountains,

• noticing the way the light changes across the valley.

Other times it’s:

• walking out toward the middle of the property,

• crunching through tumbleweeds, tall grass, and shrubs,

• letting your body move while your mind finally stops scrolling.

There’s nothing fancy about it. No trail map required. Just ground under your feet and enough sky above you to remind you that your inbox is not the size of the universe. But its the universe that is your inbox.

Those five‑minute breaks are exactly the kind of “quick doses of quiet” Duke psychiatrists say help our brains get out of constant alert mode and back into a healthier rhythm.

Nature walks: horizon therapy

Another theme you see in both spiritual writings and scientific research is the healing power of vastness—standing in front of something bigger than you and letting it reframe your perspective.

In the book Sacred Rest, the author Dr. Dalton-Smith talks about creative rest, the kind of rest that comes from looking across a vast landscape—the ocean, a wide field, a mountain range—and letting your mind rest in that beauty. Its the same beauty whether natural or man-made, that our souls yearn for, to be captivated and awe inspired. Out here, we don’t have the ocean, but we have our own grand canvas, painted for every visitor to see. How would you interpret the artests intent?

From the Deer Creek porch, you can see:

• the full sweep of the Old La Sal valley,

• distant mountain ranges reaching toward Colorado and Telluride,

• open sky in every direction,

• the larger than life, La Sal mountains.

You can stand there and feel small in the best possible way.

When I’m in those moments, I can feel my body respond. My shoulders relax. My blood pressure drops. The world shrinks back to something I can handle. The problems that felt unmanageable an hour ago become questions I can actually think through. The noise in my head finally quiets enough that the deeper stuff—what really matters—can surface.

You don’t need a lab report to tell you it’s good for you, but it’s nice to know the research backs it up: silence and natural settings like this help reduce stress, improve mood, and support better brain function.

Digital detox: no bars, but strong Wi‑Fi

Here’s the honest tension: there is no cell service out here.

If you stand on the porch and check your phone, you’ll see those empty little bars. In one sense, that’s a gift—you are free from the constant buzz, ding, and scroll. In another sense, it can be uncomfortable. Our brains are so used to constant input that the urge to fill the quiet is strong.

We do have fiber internet in the main house and Starlink at the tiny home. The signal is awesome—excellent for streaming, Zoom calls, whatever you need. That means disconnection here is not forced; it’s chosen. And its an easy choice, but its yours to make.

And that’s actually important.

Part of healing your nervous system is building the muscle of intention. You get to practice saying:

• I’m going to turn the Wi‑Fi off for an hour.

• I’m going to leave my phone in the bedroom while I sit on the porch.

• I’m going to take a walk without earbuds.

Duke’s article suggests specific digital boundaries: quiet mornings, scheduled unplugged breaks, and creating device‑free zones. At Deer Creek, the landscape itself supports those boundaries. You’re not fighting a city’s worth of signals. You’re just deciding when to use the ones you have.

Silence is no longer something that happens to you; it’s something you choose.

Silence isn’t empty here

The first time some people experience real silence, it can feel like a void. A blank. A nothing. Almost unbearable.

But silence in Old La Sal doesn’t feel empty to me.

It feels full.

Full of presence—God’s, for me. Full of memory—family stories, old cow town echoes, my brother’s land. Full of possibility—the sense that new decisions, new clarity, new rest might be available here in a way they rarely are in town.

When the wind stops, when the trucks on the highway are out of range, when the night is moonless and the stars are louder than your to‑do list, you begin to realize that the quiet is not the absence of something important. It is the space where something important finally has room to show up.

Silence, as Duke’s researchers point out, gives your brain a chance to heal. Silence, as people of faith have been saying for centuries, gives your soul a chance to hear.

A silence‑first invitation

If any part of you is tired of practicing "The Scroll" and is ready to "Practice Presence" instead, consider this a gentle challenge.

Plan a weekend where silence is not an afterthought, but the main event.

• Start your days on the porch with coffee and no phone.

• Take short walks just to look at the horizon.

• Build in quiet breaks between activities instead of cramming every moment full.

• Choose when to turn the internet off, even though you could stay plugged in.

• Let the moonless nights and loud stars do what they do best.

Book the main house if you want to bring people you can share that quiet with—family, friends, the ones you can sit in silence beside without it feeling awkward. Or choose the tiny home if this season is calling for more solitude—just you, (maybe your parner, the tiny house has room) the valley, and enough sky to remind you that you are held.

Silence isn’t empty here.

It’s full of presence, memory, and possibility.

Ready to let the land turn down the volume for you?

Plan a silence‑first weekend at the cabin or tiny home, and give your nervous system the kind of rest it’s been waiting for.

Cheers!

Justin