Could there have been fifty sparrows chirping in the bush along the road to the lighthouse this morning? Well, maybe twenty-five. I stopped, expecting them to fly off, but no, instead, their singing slowed to silence, and I mean total quiet, not a peep. Then, to my surprise and delight, they repositioned themselves more visibly on the bush so I could take this picture. Yes, believe it or not, they did it for me. Affinity between me and the birds. Life is rich when I remain open to mystery and miracle.
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I have the ‘house to myself’ today. The thought crosses my mind, “Oh, I can get a lot done.” How foolish. Why do we always think that time alone means time to get things done? Maybe it goes back to those child rearing days when there might have been some truth in it. I remember the usual dilemma. Do I get something done, which translated into tidying and cleaning up, or do I take a nap. The nap usually won out. Nowadays, ‘house to myself’’ mean something different. I don’t have to get anything done; I can take a nap. Having the ‘house to myself’’ means simply that no one is around. It’s a subtle difference, but nice little change for anyone who sometimes like to be alone. During the three years that I have consciously been considering silence, it has become clear to me that the feeling of silence doesn’t only wash over me when there is no sound. For example, when I’m at the cottage I feel silence as the waves lap on the rocks or as the gulls caw over the beach. These sounds of nature exude a sense of silence, which gets me wondering about the affinity between silence and a feeling of calm and peace. This past Wednesday, my train trip from Connecticut to Grand Central Station, followed by a subway ride to Greenwich Village. offered me another situation in which to consider the nuances of silence. Generally speaking, the silence of nature isn’t a major characteristic of a city. And yet, the many little parks that we walked by exuded a sense of peace and calm, and yes, silence, as buses and cars circled by them. The quaint, tree-lined residential streets also offered calm, peace, and silence. One my most silent moments of the day, however, was on the subway from Times Square to Grand Central. The cars on that line are all decorated with murals of books on shelves. You get on to the sound and movement of the subway, only to find yourself feeling the calm and steadiness of a library. That is silence. The incessant drilling noise up the street has me thinking about what it might be like to live in the Middle East amidst the noise of war and death. My local noise, although loud and constant for much of the work day, is part of a project to repair a pipe line and put in a new sidewalk at the church. The specific drilling has to do with minimizing a bolder so it can be carted away. A rather mundane project under the auspices of a religious institution. No warring factions, no killing involved. Nothing more than an auditory annoyance and inconvenience. The message in today’s newspaper is that those who lost loved ones eleven years ago in the fall of the twin towers are acknowledging this anniversary in a quiet way. I can resonate with that even though I personally didn’t know anyone who died. Today is a beautiful early fall day where I live. There was a feeling of hope in the air when I met a neighbor on my walk this morning. She told me about her friend who went to work in New York City that day….now her children are eleven and fourteen. “Just my children’s ages,” she told me, “but mine still have me.” Um, the ages of my grandchildren as well, and they still have their mother and I still have my daughter. I feel sad knowing that not everyone is enjoying beautiful weather on this 9/11 day. Sunshine gives us hope and on a day like this we can all use some. But there is something hopeful about the silent and simple remembrances. When I take the long version of my walk around the block, I go by a spot in the road where birds like to cross. Today it was a wild turkey; no two; no three. By the time I focused my camera for a close-up, I had spotted three of them in the woods, camouflaged and soundless as they grazed the underbrush. This was holy silence, telling me, all is well. As I tried to capture the turkeys on camera, I heard birds, saw the wind on the sunlit leaves and smelled a harbinger of fall--an alive, dynamic offering of silence, solitude and simplicity, Then, far off, an ambulance siren, another sign that life was happening. No, I didn't take the picture. To say that it was humid this morning doesn’t really tell the story. Seventy degrees at 5:30 always foreshadows an unbearably hot day and today at 5:30 there was NO wind, breeze, or movement of air. Some would call the day oppressive but to me it offered solitude--maybe that’s because the house was empty of guests, family and pets. It was still, as in absence of all sound. But then the silence was broken by the cawing of crows, all their families and friends. Why were they up so early? Answer: my husband looked out and saw a HUGE hawk perched on the fence. A definite intruder, at least according to the crows. By the time I got back to the window with my camera, the hawk (could it have been an eagle?) had flown away. and so had the crows. Well, at least I didn’t hear them. All was still again. Solitude reigned again. Yesterday I visited my favorite museum/church in Florence, the Convent of San Marco, which houses the painting and frescoes of Fra Angelico (c. 1300-1455). You enter into a cloister and, if you’re so inclined, you can turn right into the room with the paintings. Or, as I did, you can cross the cloister and ascend to the floor with the monks cells, each adorned with a fresco of the life and death (there are many crucifixes) of Jesus. There is a rich fifteenth century history of silence, solitude and simplicity at the Convent of San Marco. Cosimo de’Medici (1389-1464) often retreated here from the busyness of being the unofficial leader of Florence. He came for study and contemplation. On the other hand, the Dominican monk, Savonarola (before he was burned at the stake in the Piazza della Signoria in 1494) lived at the convent as he rallied the Florentine citizens to lead a pious life and take back the government from the wealthy families and merchants. Interesting to note that neither men weren’t confined to one cell, but had a suite. Cosimo had two rooms, Savonarola, three. Even today, as someone drawn to silence, solitude and simplicity, this is the palace to be. Each cell is about 12’ x 12’. Back when monks were living there, we believe that all each cell contained was a bed and table and maybe a chair. What more could they hold, and besides, what else did a monk have or need? I have more furniture in this apartment than I need, but my belongings are simple. Just like at my cottage by the sea, I use few dishes, wear the same few clothes, and accumulate as little as possible. Like Cosimo, I’d love to retreat to a cell in the Convent of San Marco. While enjoying a latte and bagel at Barnes & Noble yesterday, I read the first 70 pages of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking, by Susan Gain. Interesting how psychology, beginning in the '50s, and playing out at Harvard Business School and beyond, decided that quiet and being introverted was bad for the individual. As a teacher I played my part, too, voicing concern about students who, though doing fine academically, weren’t ‘social enough’. Public wisdom in the education field and beyond was that there was something wrong with introverts; that they ‘had problems’, although often we couldn’t be more specific than that. I seem to be into the introvert phase of my life. I think I was that way as a young child, but was also socialized to actualize my extrovert propensities. My teen years, parenting, teaching, writing my books and presenting to teachers called upon my extroverted self, all of which I never objected to or even though much about it. In retrospect, I am aware that all of that was balanced by times when I retreated into my solitary self. What I have read so far in Quiet affirms what I feel is right for me now in my life. Understanding the extrovert/introvert dichotomy in a new way, helps me accept my search for silence, solitude and simplicity, and my longing sometimes to be alone. Another topic~~ Take a look at the two women in the photo. The one whose back is to me, is reading a novel; the one facing me is taking notes from magazines, which range from cooking to finances. They were together (friends, partners, sisters?) although sitting at separate tables for a morning of reading. I know that they were together because the ‘reader’ got up and offered to fill the ‘note-taker’s’ little plastic cup with water. “Um,” I thought, “They haven’t spent one cent here today.” “Um,” I thought some more, “I am not spending one cent on this $26 book. I guess I’d better be quiet about my judgments.” |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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