the lie of quiet…

“Are you writing?” she asks me.

“Yes, all the time.” I say.

I’m not lying. I am writing every day, all the time, in my head. Sometimes I actually write it down…someplace. Old receipt, back of my hand, email to myself. When I get the chance to sit down at my computer I realize I have already lost track of what I meant by that crypic note. It was all fleshed out in my head. It was life altering, the secret to a long and healthy life, the cure for cancer…well, maybe not that important but it was good, anyhow.

The note I retrieved today was “the lie of quiet.”

It’s a good line, right? At first, when I sat down to write I stared at it with utter confusion. It sounded good in the car at that stoplight when I scratched it out on this greasy receipt. I puzzled over it for a few minutes until complete chaos broke out upstairs. It was “good” noise, kids playing. They are getting bigger and louder, all the time. They were getting along but it was loud, very very loud. As I began to shout upstairs for  some “settle down” time I remembered about the lie of quiet.

It’s a lie that I need quiet to write. Right now it doesn’t feel like a lie. It feels unbelievably true. Quiet leads to creativity and if only I had a little of that then I’d be writing it all down, all the time. Quiet feeds my chaos ridden soul. Quiet has all the answers. Quiet is my very best friend. I just have no idea where she lives anymore.

And so, in the midst of the loud and I mean it is loud, very very loud, I am going to test the lie of quiet and I’m going to try to get by without her for a little while. It’s a weighted workout, only I’m lifting barbells with the bridge of my nose. It’ll be good for me in the long run, I’m sure of it, even if it does end up putting my nose out of joint a little.

Ugh.

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One thought on “the lie of quiet…

  1. The “lie of quiet” kind of reminds me of the eye of the storm, or the center of a hurricane. Maybe that is that fleeting moment of peace that allows us the inspiration to get us through the storm.

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