It’s a soft cloud that settles after so much rain, after the tumultuous applause of tongues simmers away to allow a mist to claim the room. It’s a safe place sometimes, it saves our grace when there is chaos and there are too many decibels to deal with, held softly it grants a respite from the stampede of life’s less tranquil spectrums. Silence slides through empty homes when life is spent, when days are sent to slumber, it paints into the night a thin slip of light that allows the smallest lungs, from beneath the blades of grass, to serenade the night.
Sometimes silence thunders, it harbors echos of a life already lived. When the traffic of everyday is drowned out by silence, inside us, the cannons of old wars reverberate their anguish. The dialogues that refuse to die, live inside the quiet moments that still the senses. Silence rouses the nocturnal voices that are rested while the world of sounds is active, the voices that find you when the world around you pauses for rest. Silence is never silence, the echos are waiting, silence allows for another spectrum of life that has no opening for anyone but you.
Allowed to its share of life, silence is a loving gesture, a needed gesture. I could dance in the cacophony of my senses wildest celebration for senseless stretches of time, however the constant crashing of waves eats away at my shores. When the waves simmer and still their frenzy for a moment, a host of game is invited into the flow, and for a moment I can take stock of my quarry. I can see what it is that is attracted to to swim amidst my flow. When we get busy living it’s hard to see what we are drawing into our intimate space, I take the quiet as a cue to watch for the elements that thread through these echos of a life lived, I thin the heard accordingly.
In listening to the sounds of silence, I have learned the rhythm. The ebb and flow of the outside world bleeding in, of my inside world beating out. I listen, and move my feet to the hidden cadence of that harmony.