It’s been a long time since I’ve sat in a quiet room.
Even in my semi-private office at work, I can hear my colleagues talking and rummaging about. The phones are ringing, a computer softly dings to signal the arrival of new email messages.
At home, I usually have the television or iPod on, or a machine running somewhere, or am talking to my spouse, or soothing demanding kitties.
But not today. I’m ensconced on the loveseat, surrounded by pillows and a fleece blanket. The kitties are sound asleep, worn out from their overjoyed playing because mom and dad are home. Kelly’s excused himself for a nap (talk about a rarity – a sure sign he’s sick) and I just can’t be bothered to do much with the laundry. I even have the tv on mute.
I hadn’t realized before how refreshing quiet can be. It’s almost as though in the hustle and bustle of life, I’ve exiled silence and I don’t know why. Does go-go-go equal noise-and-more-noise?
What I do know is that I’ve had several hours of stillness and I don’t feel drained. In fact, I feel like a small part of me is reveling in the small sounds of life. The clicking of computer keys. The hum of the heating system. The soft sigh of a sleeping kitty.
How can the quiet be so full and so empty at the same time? And why do I feel so full for having sat in the emptiness for so long?