Silence

Last night the house was silent. It was silent and I could not sleep. As I lay there staring at the ceiling, I flashed back to nights ten years past, the last time I was captive in a silent house, alone in the dark, save the familiar creaks and groans of a mature home settling in for the night. I did not like it then, and I was brutally reminded last night that I still don't like it.


I'd surely fail at hermit school.


Last night was a rare occurrence where hubby was out for the evening and cable was out. I was alone with the silences and my book.


My habit is to fall asleep with the television on. Terrible, I know, to let the TV in to the bedroom. But it does not keep me from sleeping. I turn off like a switch promptly at ten, reduced to a sleepy bundle of mumbles. Hubby is solicitous, asking if the television is too loud. I murmer that it is fine. He then happily turns to whatever channel I might not approve. I like the background noise, obviously. That powerfully came home to me last night.


In the evening also hubby is a constant source of chatter. He may talk about the car we might buy next, the pop culture topic he is obsessing over, when we shall do dishes next, on the state of our neighbours, the oddity of our relatives, when we might visit our friends again, what we shall have for dinner or where we go out next, or any of dozens of cares and interests that fill our days. Many days I only half listen, a book open in front of me, my replies reduced to hums and uh huhs. It comes to me that his chatter is a welcome white noise to cover the silence.


It was the horror of silence, ten years ago, that spurred me to join a dating service that led me to my hubby. In all my life, I've only lived alone those two short years, and I hated it. I'd gone straight from home to teen parent, and for the next twenty years, I worked on raising my children and growing up myself. But it was a great time, full of industry and life. I love the background noise of family.


I wondered last night, as I stared at the ceiling, in my abhorrence of silence, am I hiding from my own inner thoughts? I don't think so. I have a rich internal life, which hubby, exhasperated, persistently draws me out, "Hellooooo, are you listening?" I take the time to reflect, and to write down those deep reflections here. I don't think I am hiding from myself.


I do fear, though, that introspection alone is it's own danger. Perhaps I fear, in the deep silence, I might withdraw completely from the active, cheering, distracting clamour of daily life. There is a simple joy in just living. I don't want to forget that.

I borrow the cosy picture from Fredy's blog:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=293448132

Neighbourliness

I confess, Hubby and I are the nosy neighbours. You know, those very special people who nose in to your lives and somehow know more about you than you do yourself. Neighbours like us are commemorated on screen, like this top twenty-five list of sitcom neighbours. Surely you remember them. There's Frank and Marie, Urkel, and who can forget Kramer?

http://www.ebelog.com/15/sitcom-neighbors/

I figure it's the unique combination of our strengths and neuroses that led us to where we are today. We both love the small town life, but live in the big city. I figured, if the mountain won't come to Mohamed, well.... So I added a few small town habits. We stop and talk to passers-by. I drop off cookies for newcomers, or to commemorate an everyday fence-burning, or maybe just for no reason at all. After all, I love to bake with my granddaughter but I cannot eat. Why not give the love away?

Hubby asks everyone what they are up to, aggressively interested in their day. He's not faking it. He really wants to know. After all, people and their lives are loads more interesting than television. He also has a sharp eye for makes and models of cars. We know, for instance, when our single neighbour has switched boyfriends, by noting the change in make and model of car in her visitor's spot. We figure when our young couple is visiting family out of town, when their spot is vacant for a few days.

Me, I want to extend our social network for our own sake. Since we are in a religiously mixed marriage, it's tough to find couples in our relative congregations who will socialize. So I constantly search out new prospects in our neighbourhood. These extended friendships also help to remind my hubby that regular people, religious or not, are just plain fine folk.

Building our own small town around us has it's perks. We've lent and borrowed sugar. Sympathetic neighbours have pooled their collective intelligence to help us break in to our own home. I've traded perrenials around the complex so I now have a blazing variety of flowers in my garden. We've helped our neighbours apply as foster parents and get their mortgage witnessed, and they've helped us get our passports.

Helping each other fill out those necessary applications have been a wake-up call for the young couples in our neighbourhood. In the busy-ness of building their lives and their little family, they suddenly realize their network of friends is very, very small. What does it say about our modern, isolating lifestyle that the best candidates to vouch for them are the....nosy neighbours?

Have you thought of seeing a counsellor...

...or perhaps diarizing your feelings?" Can I count the number of times I've been given that advice? Well, it happened again. A zealous instructor called me ahead of her course on clutter-busting. I admitted I knew what kept me from throwing away miscellaneous papers and things at home.

I'm afraid of losing my history.

Thank God she added the second part, diarizing. I can honestly say that I do. Though I don't know how much is spent on introspection. I also fear that too much navel-gazing will make me self-centred and neurotic.

But more about forgetting, which is what the instructor suggested I explore a little further. It's not like alzheimers runs in the family, but my mind my most valued asset. Just like a pretty woman fears losing her looks, I fear losing my mind. I spend so much time with ideas, will I forget my children's names? Where have we lived? What have we done? So I keep the utility bills from twenty years' back.

Yes, it's probably time to clean out the attic. And the basement. And the cobwebs in my own mind.

I have a feeling that instructor is going to have an amazing course. She asked me to make sure to introduce myself at the class.

What room in my home is my favorite?

So asks the "One Minute Writer" another fun blog.

What is my favorite place in my home? Hard to say. I guess you could pick where I spend the most time. But that might be for convenience and comfort, not real joy. Of, course, most time is spent in the bedroom. We have made it comfortable. It has satiny soft microfibre sheets, deep mauroon window curtains, and a flat screen television on the wall. The room is comfortable.

But I don't think it is my favorite.

I would have to say it is my kitchen. My kitchen is where I can most easily create. Oddly enough, it was the purchase of a simple recipe cover that changed the way I approach my kitchen. It inspires me to put up the most recent recipe to try, and prompts me in the evening, when I would most comfortably retire to that cosy bedroom, to make something instead.

The image is from http://www.kitchen-outlet.co.uk/buy/Clear-Acrylic-Recipe-Book-Holder.asp