To be able to hear the smallest of noises is to be quiet. To be sensitive to one’s surroundings, aware, present is to be quiet.
Quiet used to look like a meandering walk, lost in my own thoughts, hearing the birds, the car horns, the wind, the subtle stomping of my quick pace. Quiet used to look like long stretches of book-in-hand-blanket-on-body. Quiet used to look like early mornings on a fog-filled lake, sun settling into the day with me.
Quiet is hard to come by now. The boys like volume. Music loud. Talking loud. Various sound making loud. Arguing loud. It’s constant. My mind seems to beg for moments to sort through my own thoughts.
But their voices prevail.
They are quiet, sometimes. When there’s a snuggle, when they’re mad, when they are lost in an episode of Daniel Tiger.
Maybe quiet isn’t volume, though. Maybe quiet still exists even in the loudness of a two-boys-under-five house. Maybe quiet is more about calm, about being still, being present, being aware.
Maybe it’s my own mind that needs to quiet itself, not their high-volume full-embrace of life.
Honestly, though, I think we could use a little of both.