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Variations on the theme of silence
Silences that close us off, refusing connection, shoring up the ego at others’ expense—those are dead silences. But the letting-go sort, the silences that hold space or keep vigil for someone else? They are alive.
Whenever tornado sirens wailed, we carried blessed candles down into the basement, and Grandpa cranked up his little black transistor radio, the weather updates echoing off damp concrete. Even in adulthood, struck shy at a party, I know that if I do not throw myself into the fray, I will be thought either haughty and aloof (if I carry myself erect) or pathetic (if I hunch into myself and hide on the darkened periphery). The sight of that brown sign welcoming me to the Illinois Ozarks drops my blood pressure, and as the trees start to outnumber the houses, something tight and sad inside me unwinds.
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