silence

It is an oddly silent night here in Northeast, a sort of culmination to an oddly quiet week of vacation -- and now, as I'm wanting to get back to work, I'm dealing with a nasty virus as well that has me hot and cold, up and down. But outside it is unusually quiet. I don't think my ears are so terribly stopped up, as it was this way last night as well. No wind, no sirens, only the occasional ringing of the wind chimes; no traffic, nothing. Quiet. No train noises, even, a distant racket I've grown used to.

I haven't had much email from work all week -- no calls from anyone in a state of panic over this or that, and hopefully the plants haven't died yet -- and I feel torn between relief and a pouty sort of huff over not being (apparently) much missed. And yet...this is what I need. A genuine break in the chaos and busyness. A genuine period of silence, even if I'm forced to sleep through some of it. I'm not in demand at the moment, and whatever else may be happening is out of my hands.

Maybe somewhere in this silence is a reconnection with whatever it was I haven't had in the past few months -- the elusive strain of inspiration that has left me with a vague dissatisfaction -- the feeling not long past that something was building, that I was going somewhere -- that we (at church) were going somewhere -- that it was more than just a lot of sound and fury. Something's been missing lately, though it's not all been wasted effort, no. After a week away from the usual influences, the voice of longing and frustration has gradually quieted -- though I'm not sure what remains. I get addicted to the breakneck pace. I feel a little bit of resentment towards this quiet: how can this be better? What's in it for me? Silly I know, and I should just shut up and listen.

Listen. Maybe to something other than the blood singing in my ears. If I stop running, do I stop being me?