Goodnight noises everywhere . . .

 

By Mary Kay Roth

Early this morning, just as Saturday dawn was whispering in my ear, I found my way to a favorite trailhead at Wilderness Park, hiked over miles of paths and meandered through a wonderland of snow-frosted trees.

Then stopped.

Listened to the sounds of quiet.  

And felt the silence settling over me like a blanket of bliss.

The promise of winter was in the air. 

Once upon a time, when winter was threatening to arrive, I moaned and groaned about the long stretches of dark and lonesome. Somehow over the years, something changed.

I love the stillness of winter. I love the darkness.  I love the annual sense of hibernation that stirs the embers of renewal and rebirth.

My dad’s favorite song was Silent Night, and he sang it all 12 months of the year.  I was a newborn who arrived in the spring, but my dad still sang me the sounds of “all is calm, all is bright.”  Now my daughter sings Silent Night to her two daughters as she tucks them under the covers each evening. 

There is indeed something sacred, something holy about silence, slowing the cadence of life’s rhythms and giving your weary brain a break from the day-to-day clamor. 

After this morning’s moment of merciful shush, I found myself wanting more.

I wanted a walk in the woods with nobody to meet.  I wanted to sit in my home, just as the afternoon sun starts to fade and the light is low, stillness all around. I wanted to stand in the silence, comfortable in the calm.

For me, quiet brings essential moments of introspection, grace to nourish my spirit and the rare opportunity to listen to my own heartbeat.  Thump, thump. Yep, I’m still alive and kicking. 

Sometimes, I almost lose track. 

Today we live in the noisiest period of human history with pinging cell phones and squawking alarm clocks, car alarms and leaf blowers, loud TV commercials and even louder sports competition.  The stereo sound systems we now have in our cars are much louder than the sound system the Beatles used for their concerts in the sixties. 

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, we had more space to daydream.  We sat quietly at traffic lights, in physician waiting rooms, in line at the grocery store.  We went for walks without earphones and roamed without GPS to guide us in the “right” direction.

Believe it or not, the Internet did not exist 50 years ago – Google was not around, 25 years ago – and the telephone did not exist 150 years ago.  Yet in  2019, the average cell phone user touched their phone more than 2,600 times per day (double that for millennials).  The average American was exposed to 5,000 ads every 24 hours.  

I had high hopes of a possible silver lining in this pandemic, perhaps easing the jangly busyness of our days.  But in some ways the noise escalated, even intensified, with experts calling out ongoing pandemic death counts,  politicians screaming post-election pandemonium, shoppers facing holiday frenzy on steroids – and the New York Times reporting that antacids are the latest shortage facing Americans.  

I’ll pass on the Tums, thank you. My own personal prescription for release from the migraine-pressure of screeching decibel levels is much simpler:  Give me quiet.  

Research confirms that silence allows our prefrontal cortexes — our brains' “attention centers” — to relax and restore.  But honestly, we don’t need experts to recognize we are desperate for a bit of undisturbed sanctuary. 

One of the most soothing reads I know is the child’s book, Good Night Moon, which concludes with these calm, familiar words: “Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere.”

When asked about the book’s true meaning, author Margaret Brown said: “Quietness is an essential part of all awareness. In quiet times and sleepy times, a child can dwell in thoughts of his own, and in songs and stories of his own.”

Grownups can and need to dwell in quietness as well. Quiet re-introduces us to ourselves, allows us to settle into ourselves, helps us remember our internal songs and stories.

I find my own stories in that hallowed space of stillness ... 

* Standing on the edge of a frozen lake at sunrise and watching the light turn golden.

* At dusk, bundling up and sitting in my front yard as twilight arrives, leaving my cell phone inside.  

* Relaxing in my favorite easy chair, all devices and gadgets off, a dog lounging nearby. 

* Getting lost in the middle of the woods on a winter morning.

Please understand, I don’t hate noise.  True confession, I am an information junkie who appreciates the avalanche of available podcasts and craves constant updates on vaccines, inauguration plans, CNN, NPR, social media prattle.

But on an achingly beautiful weekend like this one – with a soft blanket of snow and the cool, clean advent of winter – perhaps it is time to reclaim our peace and quiet.

Time to put the world on mute.

Time to soothe our souls and savor the silence.  

Time to get lost in the woods. On the prairie.  Around the lake.  In our own backyard.

Time to stand in a circle of quiet. 

And hush.