Some people want a larger home. Some, a new job. Some dream of lavish vacations. Me? I want seven minutes of silence. Pure, triple X, golden silence. I would take it in a car. I would take it at a bar. I would take it here or there, I would take it ANYwhere.
As I sit here typing, I have two children in time-out, one rolling a plastic bus over her own face and one clinging to my knee as if it were made entirely of Oreos.
As I sit here typing, the world is whizzing by my window. People alone in their vehicles. Alone. In their aloneness with alone thoughts of being quietly alone. I imagine they are looking in my window and thinking, “Look at that lively home with all of those bustling sounds!” and to those people I say, be thankful my house is not “drive-by and sniff” or you would be horrified when you awoke from your smell induced coma.
As I sit here typing, I try to imagine the sound of nothing. But, even in near quiet, a toddler will sit down next to me, put their mouth next to my ear and chew a Triscuit. When I flinch and run to the bathroom, someone will stick their face in the gap between the door and the floor and will speak in run-on sentences until I emerge. It’s not that I don’t love sound, it’s that I don’t enjoy the feeling of one thousand ladybugs playing hopscotch on my brain.
The baby is adorable in her endless noise. Even when she’s sleeping, she will put her face directly in mine and breathe loudly. Creepy, heavy, on the other end of the line breathing. Restraining order breathing. HEHHHHH HEHHHHHHHH HEHHHHHHHHHHHH HEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sheer strength of will it must take to create noise every living second. It must be exhausting, however, making the noise has little to no effect on the noise maker. It doesn’t appear to be exhausting. Therein lies the magic. I am exhausted. Exhaustion by proxy? Brilliant.
On some evenings, 2 glasses of wine in, I marvel at the talent of my copper pot band. Every delighted shriek that does not end with, “BLOOD!” fills my heart with joy and then fear and then joy again before the fear of recognition creeps back in that screaming is their language and I am the tourist that simply points at things with angry eyebrows. My jumbled sounds say, “Hay goes in a haystack and it’s ice cream for dinner!” when I’m saying, “I can’t hear anything! Can you hear the words coming out of my mouth? HELLO?”
It’s not that they are not listening, it’s that they are speaking Kid and I am speaking fluent Grown Up In Charlie Brown.
My husband plays several instruments. Currently, we have four trombones, the loudest instrument in the orchestra. I often wonder if he is trying to slowly drive me insane. Well played, sir.
|“WAH WAHHH WAH WAHHHHH.”|
I think about how often we try to reconnect by going out into different noise. The noise of our life becomes routine and we crave the noise of others. Dinner conversation at the next booth. The bar patron three stools down. Active listening on social media drowning out the sacred and constantly constant noise of home. Losing ourselves in the noise of others. Losing ourselves in the noise of the world.
I don’t need a day. I just need 7 minutes. One to let my mind slow. One to clear the anxious jumble of words, One to breathe. One minute to bask in the glory of nothingness. One to reconnect with the latent peace of my soul – my separate being. One to give thanks for the healthy children making the noise and one for making peace while beginning to miss the noise.
It seems so simple, yet, silence is the most elusive part of my day. I crave it while fearing a life without it. The push-pull of the sounds of home.
One day my knee won’t be as delightful as a sleeve of Oreos. One day, I’ll have all the quiet and less to write about.
One day, I’ll crave seven minutes of constant, chaotic oblivion. One to adjust. One to enjoy, One to embrace. One to remember. One to immerse. One to engage and one to wish for seven more minutes in Heaven.
Until then, we are living life constantly out loud.