I've been looking out of a window for eighteen years, dreaming about what I might feel like when those lights rise in the sky. What if it's not everything I dreamed it would be?
Now, normally these are the posts I think about and scroll along on, but this one in particular was rather interesting. There was something I was rather quite fond of in this post and I’ll tell you why.
For me personally, I relate to both sides of the request mentioned above. As a child, I was quite the chatterbox. I never understood the concept of being mute or simply being unable to speak, regardless of the situation. People who couldn’t speak confused me. I often tried to find a way to get them to speak, one way or another. “If they can’t talk, then how will they get by and make friends?” That was my way of thinking at the time.
Then came my mysterious depression at the age of eleven. It was sudden and there were so many causes for it, that I declined any help for it at all. I took on a great silence for half an entire year. I never spoke, never made a sound. It just couldn’t be done - there was nothing to say. It was then that I found a new perspective on the inability of speech.
What I found, in the fog of confusion and adaptation, was silence. And there was sound. There was sight. And there was peace. I learned the gentle dance of sign language - not just the deaf use it, as I learned. Not many understood it, and to help them understand, I learned patience. I learned to look and watch, and since there were no words, I didn’t have to focus on more than one thing at a time. When people spoke I watched how they did it, how they moved, and how their expressions connected to their words. I learned to listen to the things outside of the world of speech, how to not voice my own thoughts or opinions and simply just listen. It was then I learned peace.
This was the peace more gentle than a spring rain. Yet it was more powerful than a coming storm. This peace was simply silence - there was nothing more powerful, more serene than silence. I did not have to worry or bother myself with the petty troubles of the world around me. I wasn’t included, I had nothing to provide. Sure there was solitude, but there was a sense of belonging as well.
I tell you this not because communication is unimportant, but at times the lack of it, verbally, can mean more than the words themselves. So the next chance you get, put down your phones, your music players, and don’t speak - just listen. Listen to the world, the people, a child’s cry, a mother’s prayer, the bark of a jovial dog somewhere next door. Listen to the silence…because sometimes it is silence that can mean more than a thousand words.