I require an alarming amount of alone time. If I weren’t so needy I’d mistake myself for a brooding yet helpful loner. I love my little circle of people but, periodically, I retreat behind a glowy curtain of stillness.
That’s what I crave the most: stillness, quiet. MAYBE some Django Reinhart or Chet Baker or Taj Mahal or that first dreamy Norah Jones album or certain Van Morrison in the background but overall I like to hear the breeze or the sound of kids really really really far away, laughing and playing. A squeal of delight here or there. Nothing more.
If I were honest, I’d admit that my relationship with sound is shaky. I think that’s why I crave vast stretches of simpleness. Walks, tea, books (the right books; quiet books), pens, words, the people who treat me kind.
If I told you how much unkind noise I’ve had in my life you wouldn’t believe me.
But finally, at 50, I understand my need for solitary confinement. I’ve come to know that it represents my true instinct for self-preservation, an instinct I’ve spent the better part of my life harassing. So now when I feel it coming over me—like the way it feels when you become aware that you’re drifting off to sleep and your thoughts start jumping and popping all over the place—I just make sure to loosen up and make time for lots of NON-self loathing and I say to myself everything is going to be A-Okay and then I open the door and flash my brightest smile and I say, Well HELLO beloved, wise Slothy—nice to see you again. Why don’t you come on in, make yourself at home, take your jacket off and stay awhile.
Yours In Nothing,
Queen of Quiet