A Picture of Quiet

The house is quiet.  My roommate is out of town, so her room is dark, the spinning chairs empty—or at least they would be, except she uses one of them to hold things like laundry between dryer and drawer, or books that she’s reviewing.  The other chair is overflowing with so many cushions and blankets that I’m a bit amazed that she can fit in there, too, regardless of how small she may be.

The kitchen is quiet, too.  There are a few dishes in the sink I haven’t gotten to yet, and I’m not sure that I will today.  Stranger things have happened, I suppose.  I also need to refill the sugar bowl.  I’m more likely to do that, especially if I make myself a cuppa this afternoon.  The floor is slightly sticky in places from where I overflowed water and lemon juice the other day, trying to descale the tea kettle.

Since both windows are open in the living room, it’s not quite as quiet.  The rush of cars on the street, the faint buzz of someone mowing their lawn, the distant hum of an airplane overhead, all are made welcome in this space.  Still, the noises make themselves at home in the concept of quiet.  The sunshine has moved away from the books on the back of the sofa and now shines on the covers of the books that wait on the arm of my reading chair.  A small gray and white cat sits in the corner of that red chair, glancing up every time I go by. 

My bedroom is the least quiet, but I still wouldn’t call it loud.  The pattering of my fingers on the keys is nothing that would disturb anyone.  The music that plays from behind my word processor shifts from cool saxophones to deep-voiced storytellers to Hotel California.  Perched over a tealight, the wax cubes I got for my birthday melt silently into puddles and let off the scents of oakmoss, yuzu, and ambitious plots.  I take a quick break to google ‘yuzu’: a Japanese citrus fruit.  Condensation beads on the side of my water bottle.  My hair is almost dry.  I have one entry in my journal already on the page I use to track my writing, and it’s only one o’clock. 

Madeleine L'Engle's Mrs. Whatsit declares that wild nights are her glory.  Quiet days are mine.  In the quiet, my books hold their stories in wait for me, while I spin my own across a white screen.  In the quiet, I am at home.