Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves. ~William Shakespeare, "Coriolanus
The library is usually quiet, but today, it is filled with commotion. I am huddled at my customary table with my computer and stack of books, determined to write. To be productive. I left home to escape the perpetual evanescence of my three children, who wake at eight o’clock each morning, dinging brightly like miniature summertime bells. “What are we doing today, mom?”, ding. “Can we play in the sprinklers?”, dong. “Who ate the last red popsicle? You said I could have it!”, ding, dong! “I don’t want to take the dog for a walk, I might get kidnapped!”, ding, dong, ding, DONG!
Clearly, I picked the wrong day to seek refuge in the library. Silence and peace are maddeningly evasive. A man in khaki shorts and blazingly white sneakers is copying the phone book, page by page, at an ancient Xerox machine. As it whirs, clicks and spits out sheet after sheet of paper, the noise sets my mind on high alert, exquisitely highlighting every other sound in the room. The bathroom door, opening and closing. Someone at the drinking fountain.
Nearby, a freckled boy walks in ever tightening circles, wearing neon green, froggy faced flip flops. Thwap, thwap, thwap. “Can I check out these books, mommy? Please?” His huge pile of picture books falls from his arms in slow motion, ending in a slippery heap at his tiny, froggy clad feet. He begins to cry, a slow crescendo at first, building into a loud, lusty wail. “It’s ok, sweetie. Let’s pick them up together.” Snuffle, snuffle. Flop, flop.
Where are the shushing, tut-tutting librarians? Where, in God’s name, is my peace and quiet? Certainly not in the library. Not today, at least.
A black beetle appears suddenly, flying in just over my left shoulder. It lands Kamikaze style on the white, glossy surface of my computer. Six tiny legs flailing in defeat, black abdomen and thorax flexing and heaving with the effort of what I imagine was his final, erratic flight. The beetle looks how I feel. Exhausted. Overwrought. This feels like a bad omen.
Did the incessant noise drive him mad? Did he just commit hari-kari on my MacBook Air? He’s not gonna make it, poor bugger. “Sorry, little guy. It’s hopeless.” Here, allow me to end your misery. Flick.
Franz Kafka, regarded by many as one of the most influential novelists of the twentieth century, knew the importance of solitude and silence, not only to the creative process, but to the health and well being of our souls. Without ready, regular doses of tranquility, Kafka understood that humanity risks tracing the erratic path of that black beetle who gave up his life on my trackpad. If we live surrounded by constant noise and tumult, we are virtually guaranteed to become exhausted by the ceaseless rhythm of life, doomed to living lives of repeated failure. Crash landings, hard falls and upside down flailing in unfamiliar surroundings.
No matter our place in the world, we must find time within our tiny spheres to rest, find tranquility and be still.
In order to find silence and rest, Kafka said, “You need not leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. You need not even listen, simply wait, just learn to become quiet, and still, and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked. It has no choice; it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”
Unfortunately, Kafka’s brilliant words leave a gaping hole where my life and current affairs are concerned. If, for argument’s sake, I decided to stay in my room, waiting dutifully for the universe to unfold in ecstatic glory at my feet, the results would be disappointing at best. In the worst case, I’d be left waiting for the barest crumb of silence so long, some unfortunate soul might find me mummified, head propped in my dusty hands, sixty years or so from now. That’s how loud my house is. Ever tried living under the same roof with with three kids, a workaholic husband and kinetic puppy? It’s not easy to find silence in my abode.
Still, I would not trade places with Kafka, who was a bachelor and who, I imagine, did not have to battle for moments of solitude as I do. Not for all the silence in the world. For one, he was a bit of a loon. Some say he suffered from schizoid personality disorder, others that he was an anxious, depressed sex addict. Even if he was entirely normal (and simply morose, like so many great writers and people I know), what he gained in solitude he likely would have lost in the chaotic, joyous hubbub being part of a large, loving family often entails.
Perhaps Kafka and I don’t share much in common. But, then again, Kafka was preoccupied with existential visions of metamorphosing bugs. Maybe we have more in common than I’d like to admit, me with my kamikaze beetles, bad omens and a growing preoccupation with finding silence. In the end, we both agree that solitude is an essential building block for creativity, peace and the regeneration of our souls.
Even if it does make me sound bit loony, in a Kafka-esqe sort of way, I freely admit that excessive noise drives me up a tree. These days, noise seems to follow me everywhere I go, like a modern plague. People yell and yammer. About their jobs, exes, exercise routines and vacation plans. Their digestive ills, garden weevils and saddle bags. Perhaps I was British in another life. Aren’t some things better left unsaid, a few precious subjects best held close to the vest? Stiff upper lip and all that? (Or not. Allow me to demonstrate, for your continued enjoyment, the fine art of the overshare.)
A Frenchman I met recently remarked that while Americans are tremendously friendly, generous and kind-hearted, we often move to the nitty-gritty, disconcerting details of our personal lives with alarming speed. “Did I tell you that I had surgery last week. This little donut pillow is a life saver!”
I often wonder if one particular event turned me into a silence hog. But there isn’t one particularly loud, obnoxious day I can recall that sent me over the edge. Instead, after turning thirty and birthing two of my three children, sounds of all kinds began to disturb me intensely, for no good reason at all. Perhaps pregnancy messed with the delicate workings of my inner ear. Maybe having babies, combined with an intense lack of sleep, drove me a bit mad, and it stuck.
Whatever the case may be, now that I’m nearing forty, I can’t even manage a car ride and conversation when the radio is playing in the background. Some people can converse, knit, watch television and perform minor surgery, all while whipping up a batch of spaghetti sauce and performing Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy. That person is decidedly not me. If you try to converse with me while music is playing in the background and we’re riding in a vehicle of any sort, my head just might catch on fire and explode. You’ve been duly warned.
My need for quiet and solitude intensified when I became a mother, then again when I became a writer. My children, the noisy, lovable little louts, demand constant attention. This is as it should be, but it doesn’t make the commotion they trail in their wakes any easier to bear when a moment of tranquil solitude is in order. They cry, talk or otherwise make their presence known from the moment they wake in the morning till their sweet heads hit the pillow at night. “Mom, I’m hungry. I have to go potty. Did you know Nikola Tesla was friends with Mark Twain? The dog pooped under your bed. Why can’t we have steak for dinner like the Lees? I’m hungry!”
When my children were small, finding fragments of silence in the midst of the everyday was easier. Each afternoon, I’d lead them towards their rooms as they protested, “But I’m not tired!” Then, handing over their binkie, bottle or blankie (sometimes all three, depending on the child), I’d send them off to sleep with a story, kiss and cuddle. Only then could I revel in a few precious hours of peace and quiet. It didn’t matter if I had work to finish, a mountain of laundry to fold or toilets and floors to scrub. A house with a child napping inside stilled my heart in an otherworldly manner which defied the very laws of gravity. A napping child is so serene that their tranquility is capable of pulling me in, like a super nova or exploding star. Even my restless, cluttered mind could not resist the force of my childrens' untroubled daytime slumbers.
But as they grew, my children did a terrible thing. They stopped napping. Even worse, they became teenagers, and began staying up past my bedtime. These days, long after I’ve drifted off to sleep with a book propped upon my chest, I hear strains of Breaking Bad or The Walking Dead floating up the stairs. “You still up?”, I holler. “Yeah, mom. Go back to sleep. I’ve got to finish this one thing. I’ll be up soon.” Now, I have difficulty finding peace during the day and have a hard time finding tranquility at night.
Friends with older children warn me, often with a vicious gleam in their eyes, “Just wait till they get their licenses. You’ll never sleep again.” Holy Mary, Mother of God, is there no rest for the wicked? I thought having a newborn was exhausting, but now I’d give anything to go back to those days, when my little ones couldn’t crawl, run or otherwise escape my grasp, and they could be easily pacified with bottle, breast or a ride in the car. That, plus they slept eighteen hours a day. Now you’re telling me it just gets worse?
In my current stage of life, surrounded with constant noise and busyness, I increasingly find I can’t think straight. This makes finding moments of rest and silence more important than ever, as stringing thoughts together coherently is an important part of my job. My children do go outside to play and head off to school occasionally, which ought to give me a break. But, sad to say, my mind won’t turn off, even when they are away from home.
Like a fretful shepherd, I am forever on alert, whether my brood is in the cul de sac riding bikes or out skinning their knees on the playground at school. Making pancakes, signing permission slips and packing lunches, I number my flock while scanning the hills for proverbial wolves. “One, two, three. Everyone’s accounted for. Where is Ava? There, in the neighbor’s tree. Ah, crap, she can’t get down. Dammit, who went to school without underwear?”
Therein lies the crux of the problem; I am in desperate need of silence and quiet at regularly spaced intervals throughout the day or I begin to develop problems. Serious ones. Eye twitches. Depression. A deep seated longing for the life of a cave dwelling hermit. I crave silence amid the noise and uproar of my life like a junkie craves crank or a bird craves flight. Without it, I become ornery, ugly, stupid and refuse to pluck my chin hairs. “What’s that you were saying? You want a bagel with cream cheese? I’m the bees knees? Kill me please? OK, fine. Whatever.”
Clearly, I am in need of an extended vacation, a panic room or nanny. Time at an abbey in the Alps, where everyone takes a temporary vow of silence, would do my heart a world of good. Maybe this strikes you as crazy or selfish. If it does, please do not call my husband (or me, for that matter). Maybe it’s all in my head and I need to take a chill pill. But the fact remains; I can’t stand noise. So sue me. (Actually, please, don’t do that.)
Back at the library, readying myself to leave after the beetle’s untimely death, I heard a young mother’s voice rising several octaves. I didn't need to see her face to know she was reaching critical core temperature and was about to blow.
“Put the book back, Abby, it’s starting to storm and we still need to stop at the grocery store.” As if on cue, thunder rumbled ominously, shaking the glass panes of the library windows. Weather alerts began going off on cell phones all around the building. “Flash flood warning! Severe weather alert!” Batten down the hatches!
Everyone in the library grew skittish as the sky turned black and the winds picked up. Everyone, that is, but the little girl who was still resolutely clutching the book to her chest, oblivious to both the impending storm and her mother’s growing distress.
“But this is my favorite book, mommy, ‘Everybody Farts’! Remember? The one with the dog. Who FARTS!” The little girl began to look damp and crestfallen. But her mother took on the black look of the hari-kari beetle, poking from around the edges of her eerily calm demeanor. Dangerous. Frenetic.
But, like Marcel Marceau at his finest, her face suddenly shifted to a mask of peace, patience and serenity. All for the benefit her small, hopeful daughter. “OK, but we’ve got to hurry. Step up on the stool so you can check the book out yourself.”
Before the pair hurried towards their car, I tapped the mother on her shoulder. “You’re an amazing mom.” Her eyes filled with tears. Mothers are in need of appreciation, especially ones who willingly stop to check out books about farting dogs during epic summer thunder storms. Then, I looked at the little girl. “Is your mommy going to read you this book tonight?” Wide eyes, damp hair plastered across her brow, the little girl nodded shyly. “That will be fun. I bet that dog is stinky! But, I’ll bet you’re mama’s so sweet, her farts smell like cotton candy!” Smiles and giggles all around as they ran through the parking lot, huddled together in the pouring rain.
From the library windows, I saw a tiny patch of blue sky clinging hopefully to the easternmost edge of the horizon. Near the mountains, angry black storm clouds forced their way across the western slope. As forecasted, the summer storm brought sheets of rain, dime sized hail and a vicious wind that lifted a hazy film of dust off the quiet summer streets in a quick and savage whirlwind.
The library crowd thinned to all but a few patrons. Everyone else wanted to beat the storm and get their cars safely into their garages before hail dented their hoods into hundreds of tiny round hollows. “Whew, that storm came on fast. Sure is nice to be home. Anyone want soup for dinner?” I felt suddenly ready to pack up my things and head home. Ready to return to the less than quiet, loving tumult of my waiting family. Perhaps we’d order pizza, watch a movie and wait for the vivid rainbows which almost always appear like magic after Colorado thunder storms. Double rainbows, sometimes.
**I hope you've enjoyed this essay. I very much thrive on connecting with readers through comments and messages, so please let me know what you think. Comment, vote and above all, please keep reading! It gives me hope and keeps me writing! :) - Jennifer
Cover artwork: Sascalia http://www.sascalia.com/Gallery.html