When Silence Speaks

I do not know why I sit here, eating Skittles, blogging about crickets and trees.  What, did I turn into Aesop momentarily or what?  And what is the hidden depth behind the story that even I, its creator, does not fully understand?  It was but a thought that came to me, after the children left; after I mopped the floor, vacuumed the carpets, straightened the cushions and wiped off the coffee table.  It was but an "after" thought, when I sat down, becoming frustrated with the incredibly slow speed of this laptop, that the silence spoke to me.  And just what did the silence speak of?  Well, obviously, the cricket and the tree.

(Even when I eat Skittles, I sort them by color, only eating like kin with like kind.  What, dear Lord, is wrong with me?  Come to think of it, one of the best parts of being an adult is the ability to eat as horribly as you wish and not hear your mother say, "Now put that away and eat your peas!")

Anyway, I am a fan of silence.  With five kids, one who is much like a bouncy ball in a small, uncarpeted room, and another who is so brilliant his mouth is always moving (yes, while at dinner, Mr. 9 Year Old took a swig of his glass of water then pronounced, "Though this looks like a clear liquid, it is not.  There are beasties floating around in here, we just can't see them.  There are single cell organisms...."  Yes, Microbiology in his Gifted and Talented class just showed up at my dinning room table.), who wouldn't be?  As a mother of many children, silence is a commodity not often seen, let alone, heard.  Yet here I am in silence, surrounded by it and breathing it in, listening to it speak to me.

It speaks many languages and says many things.  Only if you're listening do you hear it.  At least, that is how I interpret what you cannot hear it say.  Unless, of course, you are listening.

It is in the silent moments that I think clearly, perhaps that is why I think constantly at night, semi-awake in bed, brilliant thoughts skimming the surface of my consciousness, taunting me to grab a pen and paper and capture them.  But too often I am too tired to transcribe, thinking that when daylight hits, I will put them down in ink, but when the robin sings and the alarm clock beckons, they are gone; shadows I can't clearly see, mist in the night.

(I have consumed an irrational amount of Skittles now.)

It is in the silence that I am able to organize my thoughts, take stock of who I am, where I'm going, and what I've done.  It is in the silence that I am the most creative, inspired, and apt to string useless words together into coherency.  It is in the silence that my brain can heal and repair the depletion that is caused by constant noise, noise, noise!  Which reminds me...

I remember when the girls were little and Barney was the hot tamale of the day.  Oh, how they loved Barney.  "I love you, you love me.  We're just one big family..."  We had more Barney videos that a teenager does zits, and let me tell ya, there were no silence with Barny around.  Then the girls started to outgrow Barney and Elmo was King.  "La la la la.  La la la la.  Elmo's world...."  Oh, how the excitement would reach a feverish level when Elmo, red head bobbing back and forth on the TV screen, would start his Elmo-y song.

After Elmo is was Barbie videos, which turned into Pixar films, which turned into American Girl movies, which turned into old 80's movies which (enter Netflix) brings us up to the present.  And that hasn't even touched to world of music, but let's not get started on that.


Actually, let's do.  I think that the DOD should really look into using children's pre-school songs as a tool for torturing the enemy.  Let's take the song "The Wheels on The Bus" for example.  How many times can an adult listen to that before going crazy?  I'd find my mind replaying that song over and over again when the kids were little.  I'd be relaxing in the bathtub and hear little voices in my head singing, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round."  I'd be making bread and the little voices in my head would chime in, "The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town."  I'd be in the grocery store and hear, "The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down..."  I could not escape the curse of the song.

At least when I wrote children's songs, I had fun snazzy lyrics, accompanied by modern day rhtyhm.  Afterall, being a parent myself, why would I want to subject other parents to the same torture I'd endured with "The Wheels on the Bus?"  Not that I'm too arrogant, but I did write some pretty cool songs, as I look back mentally on the three CD's I made.  And I offered variation as well; slow and sweet, upbeat and jazzy, even a little rap mixed with reggae.  Man, I miss that.  Not only did I feel so alive writing, creating, playing, singing, mixing and recording, but I had so much fun.  As much as you may be surprised to hear it, I was not created to be a waitress.  Which reminds me....

SO I get a table on Sunday, my famous Lots-of-tables-with-crappy-tippers Day, and my first table is of three people, one of whom is an older lady dressed up in a Christmas Tree sweater with matching earrings, neacklace, and yes, hairbow.  I mosey up to the table and say, "Well, don't you look jolly Mrs. Claus, I just want to hug you and squeeze the sugar right outta ya."  (And don't ask me where I come up with this stuff, because I myself have no clue.)  Instantly we were friends and our little time together went well.  Upon the winding down of our journey in Mexican Food Land she told me, "Oh honey, you were just born to be a waitress!  You're so outgoing and witty and attentive, you gave us excellent service.  You're the best waitress I ever had; this job was meant for you!"

Instead of saying, "Why yes!  Eureka!  I've found my life's calling!  A waitress!  A waitress!  Yes!  I can save the world one table at a time!  "More chips?  More salsa?"  Oh yes, I've been longing to say those words my ENTIRE life!  Here I was wondering what my life purpose was, and now it's clear.  I was born to be a waitress!" I smiled and said, "You think so?"  And she smiled and pinched my cheek and said, "Oh yes, honey.  You were born to be a waitress."  So there ya have it folks, I can die tomorrow knowing that my mission on this planet has been accomplished.

Anyways, see what happens when the silence speaks?  I find myself high on sugar and artificial colorings, writing fables about how the Willow tree came into being and how I hear things when there is nothing to hear.  And why do I really feel the need to type about all this anyway?  I don't even know that.  But there is something cleansing about putting my fingers on the keyboard and typing away the nonsense that rattles through me while it is, of course, quiet.

I think I may need to find a job.  A real job.  Not just a waitressing job (even though that IS my life's calling).  But I am unsure.  Unsure of my direction.  I know what I am and I know what I am not.  I am NOT a person who can do the same thing, everyday, for the rest of my life.  I could never be a box person: get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box.  Get the box, fold the box, tape the box, fill the box, tape the box, stack the box.  I can't even stand to type that twice, let alone do it for a 10 hour shift.  No, no, no, I am not a box person.

Infact (two words, not one), I remember a year or so ago when I was out looking for a little work, and decided that working night shift at a hotel as the front desk lady sounded just about perfect.  Quiet atmosphere, time to study, read, learn while getting paid.  Maybe munching on a few of those incredible cookies they put out for the customers.  Yeah, that sounded like something I'd be willing to get paid for.  So, I get dressed up all classy, and mentally draw out my assault route for the finer hotels in town.  The first hotel has just hired someone, sorry.  The second hotel has a very large Mexican woman at the counter who immediately doesn't like my because I'm white and only take up one seat at the movie theater. She basically tells me to get lost until her manager peeks around the corner, decides that he likes what he sees, and suddenly - wah lah! - they just might be hiring.  I think he's too creepy, so I throw his application away.

Then I hit up the nicest place in town, also the newest.  The I'm-so-sweet-even-if-I-puked-it-would-taste-great blonde at the counter summons the manager upon my inquiry for work, and as the manager hands me an application she says, "We're not hiring for a front desk position, but the lounge is hiring for someone to bus tables."  I look at the paper in my hands, look at the lady, look at the lounge, back at the lady, and hand her the application back, smiling and saying, "Thank you, but no thanks," then turn and walk towards the door.  I can see her in the reflection of the glass, looking at me like, "Wait a minute, what just happened here...?" 

Point being, I'm not going to take just any job, I'm gonna wait till the right one comes along, or until I, once again, create my own job.  And that is where I ind myself sitting.  I'm waiting for that right job, that one where I fit nicely for this point and time in my life.  How the bills will get paid, I do not know at this point, but I do know that I am to be patient; my ear to the door, listening for opportunity to knock.

And in the meantime, I listen to the silence.  For, as you know, it speaks to me.  Many a things.  Grand things, small things, creative, big dream-type things.

Yes, I am listening.