The clang and jangle of the holidays is still ringing in my ears, drowning out the soft murmurs of my Muse. I try to write, but nothing comes.
This happens whenever my normally-quiet life gets loud for a while, whether because of travel, hosting company or attending conferences.
The only way for me to get right again is to experience silence.
Deep, soft silence.
Don’t get me wrong—I love going places, being with my favorite people and learning. I scramble around in the world enthusiastically… for a while. Then I am depleted and I need to go home and be quiet.
I concur with author Anne D. LeClaire who said in her book, Listening Below the Noise,
“Every soul innately yearns for stillness, for a space, a garden where we can till, sow, reap, and rest, and by doing so come to a deeper sense of self and our place in the universe. Silence is not an absence but a presence. Not an emptiness but repletion. A filling up.”
Fortunately, winter is a good season for silence.
The snow drifts in and muffles the distant whir of truck tires on Highway 30.
The bay of a neighbor’s hound floats up and is dispersed in the expanse of winter sky.
Even the jabber of the sparrows on their flights from blue spruce to bird feeder seems muted, as if the ice crystals in the air are sweeping up the sound.
In silence, I mull over and make meaning from my experiences.
In silence, the words come.
Can you hear the silence?