It’s so quiet. I can hear the murmur of the heater blowing on my knee. I want to wrap myself up in quiet. I cup my ears with the palms of my hands. I want to be wrapped up in silence. I want to be wrapped up.
I want to be gently squeezed in silence.
Silence has strength. Silence is like an ancient tree. Knarly. Twisted. The bark is smooth in spots where thousands of children have climbed up the trunk with their sticky fingertips and bare feet. They’ve hugged the tree trunks with their bare thighs and bare chests.
Silence is strong. It bears the weight of heavy sighs. Silence is so strong it makes valleys for tears to flow freely.
Silence holds. Silence holds long enough, steady enough, and in it’s own time knows when to let go.
I trust silence more now that I trust me more. I trust me more now that I’ve been silent.
There’s sound inside silence. I can hear better in silence. I don’t think silence is golden. I see silence as crystal clear with a tinge of sky blue. It’s the color of clear springs. It’s the color of a clear blue sky. It’s the pearl white of a child’s eye full of innocence and wisdom.
Silence is ever present. It’s inside of me. It’s here to hold me while I wiggle and squirm to get settled. Silence offers me a pillow and blanket to get comfortable. There’s no compromise with silence. It swallows up any disturbance. It’s bigger than any engine.
Silence like the color white holds everything. There was silence before-before what? I was borne out of silence. Silence is not a vacuum. No. Silence pushes. It pushes out and smooths out wrinkles and bumps. I see a beach with crashing waves and then the beach is smooth again. Silence comes after the crash. Silence comes after a storm. So when I hang in there long enough-I reach silence.
In my memories of anger explosions-there’s silence. After my mom crashed a bottle of milk over my brother’s head-there was silence. I don’t remember gushing blood or an ambulance siren. I block out what I don’t want to come into me with silence.