Silence

“Silence is God’s first language.” -St. John of the Cross

One of my favorite (or most used) Christmas presents I received came after I had been working from home for about six months — a quality Bluetooth speaker. I had mentioned these several times to my wife, as no coworkers made headphones optional for the first time in my work experience. She kindly did the research for something I would like and come New Year’s I had a new companion that would travel with me through the next tax season. The ambiance of music helped me focus when I was distracted and the chatter of interesting podcasts made the room feel less lonesome — like I was sitting in a near empty coffee shop in my pajamas unable to not eavesdrop on the table next to me. I used that speaker so much it expired before the warranty was up, so the one that sits near my desk is actually speaker 2.0. I still use it some, but AirPods have made it second banana these days.

I have found that home can provide one of the sharpest switches from noise to silence. There are waves of decibel levels everywhere, from the car to a restaurant to work to nature to a stadium. Ebbs and flows from loud cheers and dishes clattering to the muffling you hear when you step outside or use the restroom. But at home these changes are less like tides and more like fire hydrants. On. Off. Some days I am the first to get up in the morning, when the day has yet to be born. There isn’t a sound to be heard and then, all of a sudden, the light timer turns on in my oldest son’s room and the day has begun — the valve on the fire hydrant is open. This isn’t to say my son is loud (all of the time), the silence can be broken by anything: the radio, the television, the dog barking or your own speaking voice. And it usually is startling each morning to some degree. Perhaps even more startling is when the silence dramatically returns at night. The phone call is over, the movie has ended, the faucet in the bathroom has been shut off — and the dark and quiet return so fast it is as if they never left.

Silence in some ways is the ultimate invitation because you don’t quite know where it will take you. And silence in the home can be especially robust because it is chosen silence. You have chosen to turn off the music, the television; you have chosen to shut off your screen and stop the conversations coming out of it. You have elected to rehear how loud your breath and beating heart can be. What I have found so inviting (and frightening) about this kind of silence is that it typically has something to say about you, and nothing else. And what it has to say is merely offered, and never imposed. And the soundless message is sent out fully ready to be received and equally ready to be ignored. What courage it must take to hold both of those so easily.

Truth be told I have had a lot of trouble welcoming this sort of silence into my home the past couple months. That is part of why I haven’t had anything to share. Succumbing to the bombardment of interruptions, opinions and mirages of noise left me off balance in myself. But the language of silence readily waited anyway. Regardless of how crowded your home is (whether that be other people or devices) silence is waiting to be welcomed — and waiting to inaudibly whisper something you’ve been needing to hear.

May you have the power to mute the noise around you that doesn’t have much to say anyway. May you pull out a chair for silence, and may you sit with it fully ready to receive what is offered. And may you, my friend, feel quite at home in this quiet that belongs to you.