It’s seldom quiet here, and when it is it’s an awfully loud, disturbing kinda quiet.
It echoes in my ears; deep bass tones, ominous whisperings.
And creaking. Always the creaking. Skittering sideways across the walls, rumbling through the basement,
sliding right there, thinking I don’t notice that shimmer from the corner of my eye.
But I do.
A few days ago I was home all alone.
This was pretty much unprecedented.
I imagined I’d get All That Stuff Done.
You know All That Stuff. The thinking stuff. The silent working and being oh so productive stuff.
The stuff you’ll start or work on or even (angels and ministers of grace defend us) finish one fine day when the peace surrounds you and thoughts flow uninterrupted.
But I didn’t.
Instead I wandered about. Nearly pacing. Dusting this or that, moving this candlestick to a different mantle, stacking dishes in the dishwasher though it isn’t my job at all, gathering clothes hangers from the laundry room counter and hanging them neatly on the line.
The latter somehow led to cleaning the entire laundry room. Straightening the cupboard shelves, clearing out the drawers, gathering up the pots and carrying them outside to the gardening bench for replanting. Wiping down the counter, the washer and dryer; even vacuuming an inch or so of dust and lint and heaven knows what else from atop our tall dryer.
See? This is what happens when I’m left alone.
Things wind up being tidy. They even begin to gleam a little.
And none of the lovely messy work I’m supposed to be doing over at that laptop, a pen and pencil stuck in my bird’s nest upswept hair, two water bottles, a cup of tea, a diet coke, and maybe some horchata littering my desk.
Somehow or another I must train myself to be at ease within the quiet.
Somehow I must let it wrap around me, warm with tiny wisps of cool, these creakings and skitterings familiar and expected, the ominous whisperings not so ominous after all but simply tree song and wind dance and yes the sound of Witt’s End settling down and sighing deep.
The skittering’s shimmer along the walls a thing familiar and benevolent.
But I fear this may take a while.
Because sometimes The Quiet can do a person in. It’s a thing which takes some hard getting used to.
The way it presses against your ears; so unlike the song and chatter.
And I think:
Wasn’t it odd how easy the song chatter flowed about, light trailing into the corners. Illuminating the dust trails hidden in the edges, lingering along the table rim. Blending it all into one easy, soothing, noisy whole.