Silence is...

I woke up with a song in my head (as is usual): "Silence is Golden." Quite often, the soundtrack comes from the "oldies" I grew up with--and this song predates my childhood as well. Instead, it comes from the radio channel my father had tuned. He and I were best buddies, most of my growing up. He taught me so much about music, about specific musicians and their history, and what I was listening to, everything from jazz to contemporary, blues to bop. I'm glad for all of the lessons. 

So why silence, and why is it golden? Maybe it's the time of year, maybe it's my yearning for quiet after a busy zoomer weekend and a busy day at school yesterday, followed by a busy, toddler-chatter filled afternoon. But that's just the absence of sound. I think, instead, of the silence that comes with singularity, intentional solitude. The silence that is the root of quietude. (I think Rilke is still settling into the inner folds of my brain.) 

Right now, the dog is chasing a decrepit fuzzy orange squeaky ball, one that is sent again and again across the room behind me by my obliging husband. The cars are rushing by in the early light, the tv anchors and weatherman are chattering about nothing in particular, the pellet stove is humming and rattling--friendly, home-sounds. I'm good with it. It's not disruptive noise; instead, it is the "quiet" of the silence my soul craves. Soon enough, I have to shower and dress for another busy, teenager-filled day. They are a fun and inquisitive bunch, so far (one month in!) willing to trust me and the journey I've plotted out for us through the semester. I will handle the questions, the chatter, the end-of-block tone, the all-call announcements, etc., and then collapse into myself at the end of the day. I need the enforced silent time in order to sort things out and then present a version of my best self to my family. 

Too much silence, and I start to live in my head, though. That's dangerous, and often totally unproductive. I need a balance between the waves of sound and the clangor in my memory. It's a fine line to travel, and I tend to stray a bit. Better to have the noise and busy-ness of the living than the whispers of what might have been, of the dead.

Have a good day,

C