A Quiet Time and Place

I woke up to sounds that weren’t produced by electricity. A breeze that needed nothing from me entered the bedroom window, passed over me to let me know that the world was still breathing.

The bed sheet rustled unevenly, got out of my way so that I could go to the window to open the curtain to let the daylight in. I stood there and saw an overcast but calm sky.

For the first five minutes this morning, I didn’t have to answer a single question.

Because I am connected to you, because we are all connected, there is no need for us always to talk. There is no need for us to constantly nudge the other’s attention, like keeping the engine running for fear that because the battery has died, there won’t now be a way to restart the car.

I could hear machinery in the distance, but a more welcome sound is closer, what sounds like someone washing a mason jar. It’s glass and two hands, some water, and a towel. I could hear the jar being placed next to another glass jar, straightened, arranged, but not perfectly.

People are talking on the other side of the street, someone just turned on a garden hose, and a bird is trying to say something in between the bigger things.

I know that signals are constantly around me, passing through me, like solar waves, like radiation poisoning. I know this affects how I hear when I’m not using my ears. I know this affects my mind, my timing, my walking a clean, unencumbered step. I know that the people around me can sense this too, and so they talk louder, push more buttons, trying to break up the constant noise with periodic blasts of distraction.

Sometimes when the battery dies, the best thing to do is walk away from the car.