Within each of us there is a silence-
a silence as vast as a universe.
We are afraid of it- and we long for it.

~Gunilla Norris

Silence.

I find myself most comfortable around those with whom I can sit silent, our eyes not shifting awkwardly from face to hands and back again. I can think of only five people right away that I can share my silence with. An odd concept... Sharing silence.

We share so many other things: shoes, insecurities, recipes, losses, words. Seven years ago, my mother shared with her own story of divorce, her voice telling of roots dark and intertwined... of scribbled love letters found, forgotten about in sticky car cupholders. She shares stories of life lessons, her messages skewed by a lack of honest introspection.

We have yet to share silence.

I think silence is a scary thing; it leaves room for thoughts and truth to seep through the tiny cracks it creates. We are at our deepest, our core, in our silence. We are alone with ourselves. We can be many things: dark, null, blessed, lonely. That's scary enough. But to be alone with ourselves in another's company, their silence--their possible darkness--mocking and mimicking our own...

I think I inherited my father's use of silence, his familiarity with hums of ceiling fans, ticks of clocks, clearing of throats, sighs of discontent... His raven head kept still, appreciative of all things better left unsaid.

When I think of the things I have to offer, silence may be one of my greatest. When I am able to sit silently with another, I am conveying trust and respect. How many of us have another to sit with in our silence, no matter its nature?

In my mind, I go back to my first memory of comfortable silence: my father sits reading his paper, his hands struggling to still themselves, long fingers quietly trembling on ink. Mother is locked away in their bedroom after their fight--a Sunday afternoon of pity left to her to enjoy--her face dreading the familiar tissues and tears. And I, long limbs draped over the end of the overstuffed couch, feel my father's eyes drift to my face. And our two silences, dark and similar natures intertwining in the air, recognize and understand, both at once.

Both comfortable. Both silent.

Things I've Lost

I'm not good at losing.

Things I've lost:
A copy of The Prince of Tides to a friend who never read it anyways, two weeks after her plane crashed and she, bones fractured and shoulder scarred, survived. A measurable doss of self-respect when I realized consensual sex doesn't equate to happily ever after. The belief that my father would always be too distant: three years ago, he whispered "I love you" after telling me that they chose to leave my only brother in the jail cell. The ability to drink three dirty maritinis in a row without feeling like I needed to be zipped up in a body bag the next day: sometime in the last eight months. A taste for multi-colored sprinkles: inexplicably, sometimes in the past two years, leading up to a desert at dinner last night.

A good friend told me today, after a brief sesson of self-pity, that "it's all just splendor in the grass." Some things you think are a great loss, are actually unknown blessings.

I think time speaks to us through our losses, only days or months or years later. Time shows its power over us sometimes delicately, peeling back its layers slowly, showing us how lucky we are to have experienced loss.

Splendor in the Grass

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.


~William Wordsworth

Originality Speaks

Sometimes I feel like I have no original thoughts. Is that weird? I know, I know. The thought I just had.... the sentence I just formed. Those are original thoughts because they came from me and no one else has probably spoken them in this exact way.

But no, I mean original, original thoughts. Thoughts and ideas that mean something. How often do our thoughts, or the things that we say, hold great meaning?

Sometimes I'm sitting surrounded by people, and I feel overwhelmed, as if I have nothing important to say. I feel like I say generic, expected words and sentences, and I want to be more. But then I think about the last truly original thing someone said to me. Thinking of the last particularly honest thing--and I can't.

And I find my thoughts drifting back to my grandfather. His inability to speak simply because he cannot hear or see. Imagine not being able to use your lips, your vocal chords simply because yours ears and eyes are disabled. He would give anything to hear generic, simple speech. To be able to even catch a glimpse of a word dripping off someone's lips; to hear the most insignificant word would be part of his heaven I know he dreams of.

And I'm thankful for the moments when I can hear about someone's pitiful day that was probably better than mine. Or make small talk with the crippled professor in the elevator, whose limbs are so tired but, still, he asks about my night class.

Maybe tiny pieces of honesty lie intertwined in our most generic thoughts and ideas. If we look beyond the words themselves and take a moment to examine the person behind the words... their reason for even speaking.

Originiality, perhaps, is in the eye of the beholder. My grandfather would hear or see any word formed and be gracious. Perhaps I should be, too.