March 11, 2026
Rare are the moments of
absolute silence. For those whose lives are busy, who are living days of
constant balancing, trying to keep so many balls in the air at the same time,
moments of pure silence can become their Holy Grail. Second best, if absolute
silence is impossible, is a room wherein the only sound is a clock on the wall,
ticking. Ah, yes.
I used to be that person. With
three children under ten, with having animals about, always, and with trying to
work at a day job and manage a home in the evening with equal efficiency, I can
tell you there were times. Times when I would feel as if the next totally
natural thing for me to do would be to pull out my hair, fists-full at a time.
Times when I would instead
choose to slip out of the house, under the radar. I’d grab a coffee at the
take-out window and then drive to some secluded spot—both within minutes of my house.
There, I’d turn off my car, open the windows, and wait. It took a few moments
for the engine of my car to stop its little ritual of ping-ping-pinging as it finished
shutting down.
Head back, eyes closed, I’d
take the time—never more than a few minutes were needed—to soak in the blessed
silence, to find my center again. To breathe deeply and just be.
When those moments would come,
those little times of escape, when I finally reached that point? Well, the
irony was not lost on me, and I thought about that irony every single time.
Because way back in the beginning,
when my first born was my only and we were newly returned to rural living, my
escape came not through silence, but through music. Magnificent pieces of music
which were never the same, as my heart and my soul have always had a lot of
room for songs that touched me.
When we moved into my mother’s
house, after her death, we had a lot of room. Bedrooms were upstairs but downstairs,
in what would later, and after the next two children become our bedroom, was
the den. The den contained a couple of comfy chairs to sit in, shelves of books
to read, and our stereo system with a mountain of LPs.
A system that late at night would
play Streisand or The Supremes or Neil Diamond or even a movie soundtrack—whichever
flavor I craved in the moment, and always at glorious full blast.
Both husband and son back then
slept like babes and never awakened—a reality I considered a gift from God. The
blast of music took a bit longer to do its work than the later pounds of
silence, but the music was it for the younger me. A half hour, minimum, and all
would be well again.
So I have used both
all-consuming music and total silence as healing balms during the course of my
lifetime. Two extremes, bound together only by the use to which I put them.
Being more mature now, I no
loner need the extremes. More and more I find that balance I need within myself.
Moments of mindfulness, and moments of prayer have become the salve and the elixir
when one is needed. And I’m pleased they’re needed less often than ever they
were.
For me, absolute silence is no
longer achievable. Actions always have consequences, you see, and music played
at full blast has resulted in tinnitus being one of mine. But even that’s less
than once it was, and I find it much easier these days, even with that constant
buzz, to find contentment.
I’ve discovered, as I am sure
most everyone does eventually, that contentment and peace are not commodities.
They are states of being. They are not found in the world, they can never be
found in the world, because that is not where they exist.
They live within us. They
always have and forever will. And like just about every truly good thing in
this life, having them are the result of a decision.
The world outside my office
window reveals the change of seasons and thus the passage of time. But here,
within my heart and within my soul, time slips away from the spotlight, and
peace flourishes.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
