Be forewarned, before I even begin this article I’m reminded of the phrase an old family preacher used to use anytime he’d start poking and prodding with his sermon, getting a little too close for comfort for his congregation’s liking. After taking a firm but unpopular stand on any given subject, he’d peer over his glasses from behind his pulpit and say, “Don’t shout me down now, just because I’m preaching good!”

For as long as I can remember, even as a young preteen and self-professed social-butterfly, I’ve been curiously drawn to the mystery of silence, time alone and personal retreat. The third of four children, I can remember frequently wandering off many a day to a pond behind our house – my pond – with a book of poetry in one hand and bible in the other simply to sit, reflect, ponder and pause. Bear in mind this was the early 70s before cable TV, before home computers, before call-waiting, texting, twittering and all the other “real noise” as we now know it. It was certainly before my married life with children, running two businesses out of the house, and a sense of being on call 24/7. Still, even way back then I heard the call to come aside.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when last year I found myself repeatedly picking up one book after another having to do with silence and solitude. It began with “A Year by the Sea,” followed by “A Time of Silence” with the author telling of her alone-time in a cottage tucked away literally in a nowhere-land in the faraway hills of Scotland. “The Wonders of Solitude” was another favorite, a book of quotes. As well as, “An Invitation to Solitude and Silence: Experiencing God’s Transforming Presence”. But of all the books, it’s this one, “Listening Below the Noise: A meditation on the practice of Silence” by Anne D. LeClaire that arrived just last week that has arrested my attention most.

In it Ms. LeClaire, a professional writer, tells of stumbling upon the idea of silence as a means to enhance creativity, sharpen listening skills, renew a grateful heart, etc., all ultimately causing her to begin setting aside every other Monday as a self-imposed 24-hour period of silence. At first hearing, to most of us, that would appear impossible in this day and age, or at the very least impractical. And yet, the practice of bi-weekly silence that began over 17 years ago for LeClaire continues to date. The journey has so revolutionized her life that she uses her recent book as a means to “preach” to others the untold benefits that even an hour or two of intentional silence could yield in our lives if given the chance.

Only half-way through the book, reading of her account made me hunger for my own experience. What would it feel like to go 24-hours without uttering a sound? In a house with a husband, live-in mother, and three children, was it even possible? Could it really be done? What would be the result?

Since I too, do most of my work primarily at home, I decided to find out. Today is day one of my journey and I’m proud to say I’m already 10 hours into it (if you count since midnight). It’s 10 a.m. My youngest son is a little leery of the whole idea, I think, but willing to play along. The others? They are surprisingly supportive, showing themselves more than willing to help me secure some “space” and see what happens. After all, as my husband is quick to add, “It’s cheaper than a year by the sea!” Who knows? My family could wind up being the biggest benefactor of all with a more rested, rejuvenated mom, wife and daughter, if the payoff of silence is even half of what it’s cracked up to be.

Entering into this new world I wonder, what exactly does silence look like? Is it crawling in a cave and becoming a hermit? Is it closing every conceivable outside door to the world? Surely it means different things to different people, and I expect to better define my own boundaries as I go, but for now, for me, silence will simply mean 24-hours of no verbal contact on my end. And if all goes well, I’m considering practicing silence every Monday, not just every-other. After all, doesn’t something in this tale ring a distant bell of some long ago weekly Sabbath teaching?

What do I hope to accomplish? What do I hope to prove? I don’t know, and that’s the point. What is waiting for any of us as we dare to delve into this other dimension of quiet, “below the noise”? Only time will tell, but for now, on this – my first – declared day of silence you’ll find me silently mouthing only four words: I’m making Mondays mine. It will be a cozying up to some kind of quantified, measurable, quality rest.

And you? Does the thought of setting aside a predetermined period of silence and rest hold any appeal to you, or does it make you feel a bit uncomfortable? Come on, now. Don’t shout me down here just because I’m preaching good.

To say that my mother-in-law was a character would be akin to my suggesting that Bill Gates was rich, or describing the Grand Canyon as big. Truly, my mother-in-law, Faye Morrow, was a character through and through.

And oh, how she loved to talk. Problem was Faye’s talk seldom had anything whatsoever to do with the subject at hand. Rather, she tended to view any topic under discussion as an invitation to pick up where she’d left off last time. Which more times than not, meant readdressing the comings and goings of her small town neighbors — who was doing what, with whom, and for how long.

“So how was the Chili Cook-off last week?” I would ask to make small talk.

“Rita, while I was there it was just fine,” she’d say with a flip of her hand to dismiss the question and move on. “But I didn’t stay long because I knew Francine wouldn’t be there since her granddaughter up and decided to run off with that carpenter fellow that used to lay tile at Ed’s Floor Company before Ed had to close down for not paying his taxes.”

“Oh. But the chili, was it good?” my second attempt at a light-hearted discourse.

“Yes. You see the government plumb shut Ed down a few months back, although I knew that was bound to happen ‘cause Marvine had told me his son’s check bounced when he went in Sid’s joint to get new tires for that truck that I have no idea how he could afford, seeing as how he’s been working for his Uncle Bert ever since he’d dropped out of high school once he decided to marry that city girl that started working part-time at Sonic. Of course now that the baby’s in kindergarten I heard Paulette say he wants to repeat his vows and start over in electrical work in another town and though nobody asked me, if you asked me I can’t help but believe that with her family being descendants of the first mayor ever indicted in this state, that’s probably not such a smart thing to do.”

“And the Cook-off last week?” By now I was undaunted, genuinely curious as to how the story would end, if it would end.

“Rita!” she’d suddenly say, pounding her fore finger triumphantly on the laminate table, clearly weary but proud as if single handedly she’d just solved yet another of the world’s most ancient and probing mysteries with her ramblings. “Rita!” Here she’d synchronize her tapping to fit every other word. “That is all I know…So, there you are.”
There it was… So, there you are, the customary conclusion to her every delivery. It might mean, I’m tuckered out, or I’m ready for another piece of pie, or Why isn’t Vanna on Wheel of Fortune? Regardless, it always came after she’d fully exhausted herself, making it clear – chili cook-off or not – there would be no room for follow-up or rebuttal. Until next time, end of story, over and out…So, there you are.

It’s been over 15 years since Faye passed away and I miss her. I miss her disjointed driftings, the hodge-podge of her off-the-wall anecdotes, but, most of all, I miss her belabored answers to all those endless questions I never asked.

As I’ve grown older I think I’ve slowly come to understand a little better though. The topic at hand mattered little to Faye because she was content to feed on her own thoughts, scattered as they were. In Faye’s world of words there was no set agenda, no expected departure or arrival time in mind, in short, nothing to prove. Just the freedom to wander in and out of expression, she as eager and expectant as the next fellow to see what material would be dished up next.

And me, what do I hope to accomplish with a similar mode of rhetoric, through this, my one-sided chatter-box of a blog? Not much more than Faye really. Hopefully, I’ll spare the neighbors while writing – though that’s not to say family and friends.☺ Apart from that, I have no set agenda. I expect to approach it as a place to playfully speculate, navigate, articulate, circulate. A place to jot down musings of the week, the day, or the hour, whether humorous or for real, to pick up where I left off, or jump into something else altogether.

Like Faye, I’m sure to address the very questions no one asked, never wanted to ask, never cared to ask. And after I do I’ll sit back, stare at my keyboard and tap my desk triumphantly, weary but proud, as if I’ve single handedly just solved another of the world’s most probing mysteries through my blog.

Then I’ll stand and stretch, wonder what’s for dinner, turn off the computer and say to no one in particular, “And that’s all I know…”

…So, there you are.