As I sit in the silence of the morning–flooded by light–I think about the silence filling the world.
Silence that sifts through hospital rooms, behind masks and shields, greeting those are ill. The silence that fills the space where family should be, normally would be–now empty space reserved for a time in the future, a time hard to imagine.
Silence creeps into the house, usually filled with laughter, chatter, warmth of bodies. Now empty and alone, silence filling the space. Silence, a new and archaic friend, coming back into a noisy world. We didn’t ask for you but you are here.
Silence fills those places we live, the spaces we love–parks, malls, salons, little shops and little stores–normally full of hustle and bustle but now jam-packed with profound silence that reaches into every corner we used to be. Silence is the store owner’s biggest fear and right now, our closest friend.
So I could feel alone as I sit here in my own silence, contemplating the state of our scared, broken, anxious world.
But in my own silence I can hear the voices of others, feeling the same way I do, across the country, across the world. We sit together today, alone, with our silence so that the silence will leave our hospitals, nursing homes, clinics. We welcome silence, invite it, realizing one thing for sure:
My silence is worth one less hospital bed that goes–finally, unexpectedly, painfully–silent.
