Silence is frightening, an intimation of the end, the graveyard of fixed identities. Real silence puts any present understanding to shame; orphans us from certainty; leads us beyond the well-known and accepted reality and confronts us with the unknown and previously unacceptable conversation about to break in upon our lives.
When I was a tiny little girl, I had a fever nightmare. I dreamt that I was in a dark void. The void was not crowded, nor was it vast; it was a nothingness in which I was strangely comfortable. But then I heard a shout. The shout was not a sound that came through my ears, but rather a visceral sensation that resonated throughout my inchoate body. I did not know where the shout came from, nor did I understand its single syllable word. The shout was Silence itself, and yet was Not-Silence, and it repeated at intervals, growing ominously louder and yet more silent simultaneously, until finally I awoke into consciousness, sweating, heart pounding. I threw myself out of bed and ran down the hall towards the light of my father's study, with the incomprehensible Silent Not-Silence echoing in my brain. I could not tell my father what was so terribly wrong. I had no words. He turned from his desk and gently picked me up.
That is all I remember.
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Forty-five years later, I am still occasionally terrified of Silence.
Literal Silence is surprisingly hard to come across. Even in the wee hours, there are still crickets, night birds, the rumble of a distant truck. Even on a quiet afternoon, there is the hum of the washing machine, the buzz of a cicada. Silence instead comes in different forms: a phone call not returned. An e-mail or a text sent out into the ether, generating no reply. A plea unheard, a conversation stalled or dismissed, a glance not shared. A whisper that falls into the cracks of the world. A question left hanging. An unanswered prayer.
These Silences are the hardest.
I can always think of 100 different, perfectly normal reasons, for such Silences. And yet, there is always one terrible reason, a reason that makes my blood run cold, that lurks in the background, waiting, exuding Silence and Not-Silence until I want to run.
I am a grownup. There is no where to run any more.
Have mercy, Silent Not-Silence, for I am still small, and needy.
That is all I remember.
-----
Forty-five years later, I am still occasionally terrified of Silence.
Literal Silence is surprisingly hard to come across. Even in the wee hours, there are still crickets, night birds, the rumble of a distant truck. Even on a quiet afternoon, there is the hum of the washing machine, the buzz of a cicada. Silence instead comes in different forms: a phone call not returned. An e-mail or a text sent out into the ether, generating no reply. A plea unheard, a conversation stalled or dismissed, a glance not shared. A whisper that falls into the cracks of the world. A question left hanging. An unanswered prayer.
These Silences are the hardest.
I can always think of 100 different, perfectly normal reasons, for such Silences. And yet, there is always one terrible reason, a reason that makes my blood run cold, that lurks in the background, waiting, exuding Silence and Not-Silence until I want to run.
I am a grownup. There is no where to run any more.
Have mercy, Silent Not-Silence, for I am still small, and needy.
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