THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE
"The whole world is in commotion and you wish me peace. I don't want it."
Cheng Shaw, Circle of Iron
When I first agreed to move View from the Parapet to Exodus, it was supposed to be a column in which I could say whatever I wished. When Exodus and An Eclipsing united to form Conflicting Spectrums, I had agreed to stay within the guidelines of the topic of the month. Not that it was required of me, but I felt it would benefit everyone if I could contribute to the matter at hand.
At the time, I was confident that I could discuss anything at all. After all, I'm a writer. Ideas are my business. Little did I know that the next topic was one with which I was almost a complete stranger. Silence.
I've spent a lot of time considering my life, certain that if I thought hard enough, I would be able to touch upon some memory that hinted of silence. I was at first unsuccessful. All I could recall was the words my sister Rita uses to describe me. "I wake up talking, talk all day, go to sleep talking and talk in my sleep!" My wife can testify that this is not much of an exaggeration.
Perhaps the reason that silence is so alien to me is that I was raised in a three bedroom apartment with five sisters. Peace didn't exist at any point in my house. In fact, in order to be heard at all, you had to scream at the top of your lungs continually. For years, everyone thought I was hard of hearing, because I spoke so loudly. Since then, I've learned to turn down the volume and speak intensely. Just as effective and less taxing on the vocal cords.
Then an obscure memory rose to the surface and suddenly I remembered my sole encounter with silence. It happened 1400 miles from my home, many long years ago, but it made enough of an impression to captivate me completely.
And so I here recount my brief encounter with silence. Or as close to it as I'm likely to see.
I was on vacation in the Bahamas, on the island of Nassau. I had been awarded the vacation by the company for which I worked, after having been chosen Manager of the Year for my district. Consequently, the hotel at which we stayed was not quite the top of the line. It was called The Pilot House and it was a quaint older structure, but the rooms were clean, and I was in the tropics.
A short walk away, across a beautiful bridge, was Paradise Island, with its pristine beaches. It was on one of them (don't ask me which) that I first donned a snorkel mask.
I didn't rent it. I purchased it outright. The vacation was free and that's how I do things. I bought fins too, which I never used and a book to explain to me how to snorkel which I memorized that same day.
Then, confident I knew what I was doing, I made my way to the beach. I placed the mask over my head, adjusted the strap, checked the seal and strode out into the blue green water.
My first wife, far more cautious, was content to watch from the beach. But it was only after I swam out a bit and placed my face into the water, that the world disappeared. For as far as I could see, there was nothing but water and sand. Oh yeah, and silence.
Perhaps not pure silence, but closer to it than anything I had ever managed to accomplish. I was enthralled. I swam out further, not really expecting to see anything. That was when I looked to my right and floating not five feet away was a beautiful yellow stingray. I moved toward it, hypnotized by its beauty and perhaps the silence as well. It maneuvered away from me until it disappeared into the aquatic horizon. For once, I was speechless. Anyway, it's hard to talk with a snorkel in your mouth.
I spent way too long in the water that day. My sunscreen washed off and I got a pretty bad sunburn. Since then, after investing in waterproof sunscreen, I've snorkeled in the Cayman Islands and in Florida in Pennycamp State Park. I haven't been south for many years. Yet each time I go, the one thing that always calls me back to the water is the silence. We don't get that much of it in New York City.
Perhaps that is what we all need. A time of silence. A time to reflect. To escape reality. To get away from the sounds of civilization as well as the sights. Because silence has a beauty all its own.
If we can remain quiet long enough to notice it.
Webpage & Graphics by Samandi Adams
Copyright (c) 2003-2004 ~ All Rights Reserved
"The whole world is in commotion and you wish me peace. I don't want it."
THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE
Cheng Shaw, Circle of Iron
When I first agreed to move View from the Parapet to Exodus, it was supposed to be a column in which I could say whatever I wished. When Exodus and An Eclipsing united to form Conflicting Spectrums, I had agreed to stay within the guidelines of the topic of the month. Not that it was required of me, but I felt it would benefit everyone if I could contribute to the matter at hand.
At the time, I was confident that I could discuss anything at all. After all, I'm a writer. Ideas are my business. Little did I know that the next topic was one with which I was almost a complete stranger. Silence.
I've spent a lot of time considering my life, certain that if I thought hard enough, I would be able to touch upon some memory that hinted of silence. I was at first unsuccessful. All I could recall was the words my sister Rita uses to describe me. "I wake up talking, talk all day, go to sleep talking and talk in my sleep!" My wife can testify that this is not much of an exaggeration.
Perhaps the reason that silence is so alien to me is that I was raised in a three bedroom apartment with five sisters. Peace didn't exist at any point in my house. In fact, in order to be heard at all, you had to scream at the top of your lungs continually. For years, everyone thought I was hard of hearing, because I spoke so loudly. Since then, I've learned to turn down the volume and speak intensely. Just as effective and less taxing on the vocal cords.
Then an obscure memory rose to the surface and suddenly I remembered my sole encounter with silence. It happened 1400 miles from my home, many long years ago, but it made enough of an impression to captivate me completely.
And so I here recount my brief encounter with silence. Or as close to it as I'm likely to see.
I was on vacation in the Bahamas, on the island of Nassau. I had been awarded the vacation by the company for which I worked, after having been chosen Manager of the Year for my district. Consequently, the hotel at which we stayed was not quite the top of the line. It was called The Pilot House and it was a quaint older structure, but the rooms were clean, and I was in the tropics.
A short walk away, across a beautiful bridge, was Paradise Island, with its pristine beaches. It was on one of them (don't ask me which) that I first donned a snorkel mask.
I didn't rent it. I purchased it outright. The vacation was free and that's how I do things. I bought fins too, which I never used and a book to explain to me how to snorkel which I memorized that same day.
Then, confident I knew what I was doing, I made my way to the beach. I placed the mask over my head, adjusted the strap, checked the seal and strode out into the blue green water.
My first wife, far more cautious, was content to watch from the beach. But it was only after I swam out a bit and placed my face into the water, that the world disappeared. For as far as I could see, there was nothing but water and sand. Oh yeah, and silence.
Perhaps not pure silence, but closer to it than anything I had ever managed to accomplish. I was enthralled. I swam out further, not really expecting to see anything. That was when I looked to my right and floating not five feet away was a beautiful yellow stingray. I moved toward it, hypnotized by its beauty and perhaps the silence as well. It maneuvered away from me until it disappeared into the aquatic horizon. For once, I was speechless. Anyway, it's hard to talk with a snorkel in your mouth.
I spent way too long in the water that day. My sunscreen washed off and I got a pretty bad sunburn. Since then, after investing in waterproof sunscreen, I've snorkeled in the Cayman Islands and in Florida in Pennycamp State Park. I haven't been south for many years. Yet each time I go, the one thing that always calls me back to the water is the silence. We don't get that much of it in New York City.
Perhaps that is what we all need. A time of silence. A time to reflect. To escape reality. To get away from the sounds of civilization as well as the sights. Because silence has a beauty all its own.
If we can remain quiet long enough to notice it.
Webpage & Graphics by Samandi Adams
Copyright (c) 2003-2004 ~ All Rights Reserved