In his Meditative Memoir Pico Iyer Ponders Over Silence, Solitude, Impermanence and Renewal

Pico Iyer’s “Aflame, Learning From Silence” could not have arrived at a more poignant moment—both in the world and in my own life. As we watched in horrified shock as wildfires ravaged Los Angeles, consuming the homes of friends and family, we felt helpless, grieving not just for the loss of structures but for the lives upended. Meanwhile, the world itself grew more cacophonous, stripped of clarity, compassion and hope.

Iyer’s book does not offer simple solutions, nor does it attempt to quiet the external world. Instead, it gently guides us inward, inviting us to discover the sanctuary of silence—not as an escape, but as a means of truly living. Oscillating between the restlessness of daily life and the grounding force of solitude, “Aflame,” is a meditation on how stillness can shape our understanding of the world, our relationships, and ourselves.

Loss and Perspective

A pivotal moment in the book is Iyer’s account of losing his home in Santa Barbara to a wildfire in 1990. As he watched everything he owned—years of handwritten notes, possessions that tethered him to his past—disappear in flames, he was forced to confront the question: What truly matters? In that moment, he realized that beyond the material loss, his mother, his future wife, and the music in his head remained.

With nothing but a toothbrush purchased from a convenience store, he spent nights sleeping on a friend’s floor before finding refuge in an unexpected paradise—a Benedictine monastery perched high above the Pacific Ocean in Big Sur. Here, silence enveloped him, not as an empty void but as a luminous presence. It offered not an escape but a space in which to listen, reassess, and reset. Later he will visit this haven more than thirty times.

He juxtaposes this personal tragedy with a broader philosophy of impermanence. Fire, he notes, is both a destroyer and a force of renewal. The hills of California need fire to clear the way for new growth, just as we must learn to embrace the inevitable changes, losses, and upheavals of life. For Iyer, the answer lies in silence and reflection.

Solitude and Stillness

Much of the book explores the paradox of solitude. Iyer, drawn to quiet retreats—whether in a Zen temple in Kyoto or a Benedictine hermitage in Big Sur—acknowledges that solitude is not easy, nor is it for everyone. It is not an indulgence, nor an escape, but a responsibility. A Zen master once told him: The point is to bring the calm back into the world. That, Iyer suggests, is the true challenge. The deeper one delves into the blessings of solitude, the more its residue lingers in the soul, subtly transforming how we engage with the world.

Yet solitude is not without tension. His wife, deeply social and gregarious, does not always understand his need for silence. Hearing him describe the golden poppies, the blueberry-ice-cream-colored lupins, and the aquamarine ocean, she once asked, How can I possibly compete with a temple?

For her, connection is found in shared meals, conversations, and walks with friends. She embraces the world, while Iyer often retreats from it. Their dynamic highlights a fundamental contrast in human relationships—the constant negotiation between engagement and introspection, between presence in the world and the necessity of stepping away from it.

At one point, Iyer finds himself flying across the world, jolted out of his “false sense of comfort,” realizing that stillness only holds meaning if it enriches what we bring back to others. Solitude is only important in what you can return to the world. With this, his understanding of silence shifts—it is not about withdrawal, but renewal. It allows us to re-enter the world with greater awareness, depth, and compassion.

Source of Renewal

For Iyer, silence is more than an absence of noise; it is an active, transformative force. He recalls time spent in a Catholic-Hindu ashram, where monks live in contemplative silence. There, he learns that true silence is not just freedom from external chatter but the quieting of the mind’s internal noise. He describes it as thrumming meditation, a state of heightened awareness, where one is not merely undistracted but profoundly present.

He invokes T.S. Eliot: “Where is the life we have lost in living?”

Modern life, he argues, is full of distractions that scatter the mind and dilute our sense of purpose. The monks, by contrast, live with a fierce devotion to the essential. Their vow of obedience means living in community with people they may not even like, but in serving one another, they discover a different kind of freedom—the freedom from self-centered desire.

Yet Iyer does not romanticize this path. He acknowledges solitude’s darker moments—the loneliness, the unease, the inner demons that surface in silence. Recalling a 40-day retreat, he admits: All my devils jump out at me. But he would rather face them than ignore them.

One of the book’s most profound insights is how to carry the lessons of stillness into daily life. After leaving a retreat, Iyer finds himself back in the noise of city life—stuck in traffic, surrounded by honking cars and cursing drivers. Yet, he hopes that the “residue” of silence remains, allowing him to move through the chaos with greater patience, clarity, and grace.

He concludes with another line from T.S. Eliot:n “We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

For Iyer, this is the essence of silence—not an endpoint, but a way of returning to the world with new eyes.

Lyrical and Illuminating

Pico Iyer’s writing is effortless, gorgeously lyrical, and deeply introspective, as if he has imbibed wisdom from Marcus Aurelius, the Dalai Lama, and Thoreau. Through his words, I can see him walking the rough path, gazing over the mist-shrouded ocean, watching monks file silently across icy ground between ponderosa pines. I hear the whirring of a bluebird, the scuttling of a rabbit, the faint lipstick ring left on a teacup by a prior inhabitant of his cell, a hammock. I see the miracle of light- stream through the conifers, on a book waiting for Pico to read, flood the walls of an unembellished white chapel,  on the purple hills, on his face, on the Pacific.

I, too, have felt that sacred silence in a Benedictine order in Cullman, Alabama. Each year, I retreat with fellow poets to a similar monastery, where silence enfolds us in a golden spiritual cloak. In those moments—under a slivered moon rising behind tall pines, in the white feathers of a goose, the pinpricks of starlight, the butter-yellow eyes of a black cat in the labyrinth, floating effortlessly over a carpet of stars of bethlehem—I understand what Iyer means. Silence is not emptiness; it is lightness, it is a thrumming presence, it is vibrant, it is love, it is life itself.

“Aflame, Learning From Silence’ is a book to cherish, to revisit, to let linger in the soul. It is vibrant with Iyer’s exquisite love for the wild beauty of California—and for the profound, luminous stillness that lies within us all. Thank You Pico for taking me to this enchanting world with you. A great read. An answered prayer. Holding my hand to persist in my own silence.

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With one foot in Huntsville, Alabama, the other in her birth home India, and a heart steeped in humanity, writing is a contemplative practice for Monita Soni. She has published hundreds of poems, movie reviews, book critiques, and essays and contributed to combined literary works. Her two books are My Light Reflections and Flow through My Heart. You can hear her commentaries on Sundial Writers Corner WLRH 89.3FM.