I'm housesitting [again] this summer. It's strange to reside in someone else's home, sleep in another's bed. I catch myself caught in the housesitting dilemma. I want to feel at home when I arrive after a long day of entertaining children, though it is clear by the empty cupboards and the colorful South African paintings on the wall that I am not.
The silence of the house is eery to me. After all, it's just me and the dog. The only sound that resonates in the large two story house is the soft humming of the fan overhead, or the grunts of Buddy as I put him in his kennel. It's strange to be caught in such a quiet habitat. I'm used to roommates, people to constantly talk to.
Often with the kids, they can't stand the quiet. The calm, the complete lack of noise. They blast a radio or turn the TV on just for the background clamor. The songs fill the room, draining the silence out. Usually, I'm not a fan of the quiet either. I like to listen to the radio and scream sing along just as much as the next person. Lately, however, I have been wondering why I do this. Why am I so uncomfortable with the quiet?
Am I simply afraid of what it might say? What it might reveal?
Carlos Fuentes once said, "Writing is a struggle against the silence."
It's our voice. Our weapon against the world's apathy, their disinterest.
The past few weeks, I feel as though my life is filled with "background noise."
Nothing of real importance. Just noise, obnoxious clamor.
I'm not trying to speak out against anything. Instead of struggling against the silence, I flee
from it. If I continue to let my voice fall into sync with the rest of the world, and it will
no longer be my voice, but a dispassionate drone. A constant, pointless racket that isn't
doing anyone any good, especially me.
I don't want to simply add to the noise.
But are we listening?
"Be still and know that I am God."