Finding Silence

                Silence and I have never been the best of friends.

                In the hypothetical event that the ability to incessantly ramble was an Olympic sport, I would win all of the gold medals in one unnecessarily long speech.

                I process information verbally, and I usually speak two volume levels above what is probably needed. If you’ve ever had the *privilege* of grocery shopping with me, you know that I provide an enthusiastic running commentary about each and every food item. In an effort to prove to someone that I could be quiet for an extended period of time, I tried to go as long as possible without talking.

                It was an agonizing ten minutes.

                I love conversations, connecting, the sharing of ideas. Growing up in a loud, boisterous family, there was always somebody singing, yodeling, supplying random animal noises, or chattering at any given moment. Silence or the absence of noise, was strange, uncomfortable, and sticky, like maple syrup, so I avoided it whenever I could.

                And then I moved out.

                Suddenly, silence and I were forced to become roommates. Much of my time was spent trying to drown out the deafening roar of quiet through playing music and talking to myself. Thankfully, my neighbors like to have frequent dance parties (dance parties to which I can only assume my invitation was lost in the mail), so that was helpful in my quest.

                However, I’ve made a discovery.

                In the moments of quiet, in stillness, there is opportunity.

                Opportunity to refresh. To breathe. To feel. It’s easy to rush through my days and not have to truly face my pulsating emotions. It’s convenient to reflect on my feelings in tiny glimpses and snatches of time.

                Quiet nudges those emotions center stage.

                Healing, reflection, and restoration appears in many forms. Through conversations, people, and music. Through puppies and rainy days. Through kindness of strangers and quick smiles.

                And sometimes through silence.

                Silence isn’t something to fear. Silence doesn’t mean disconnect. In fact, it’s possible, as I’m finding out, to sit with a friend and connect though no words are spoken. This kind of silence is peanut butter hands sticky; it’s refreshing, like dipping your toe into a pool in the middle of July. At times, just being with someone is the best gift you can give them.

                I will probably never be a quiet person (as my neighbors can attest when I sing at 6 am before remembering how thin my walls are). But I’m learning that silence and I can co-exist.

                After all, sometimes silence says more than words ever will.