Yesterday I wrote about how I enjoy… (shhh…) quiet.
I think that tendency came from my mother’s side. We, as in my maternal side of my family, are extremely noise sensitive. I work with teenagers and I have a running conversation with them about how not only does their perpetual cussing cause my ears to bleed but also that I can actually hear them cussing from the other side of the building. There is a lot of truth in that tale.
I think my mother and aunt are the same way. We love quiet.
There is a gentle solace in being quiet.
I have found that if I can be quiet with people, the kind of quiet that involves being in the same space without the constant need to fill a void, then I know can completely relax and be myself with them.
Growing up in a big city with a perpetual city-heart-beat of car horns makes it very interesting that I prefer quiet. I think that it is because the city noise is limited to the streets and the tourist parts of town, at least in the city I grew up in. Maybe it is the altitude that seems to muffle the sounds.
The other day I was talking about hosting Christmas dinner and talking about how much I loved it. When asked what my favorite part was, I said that it was the next morning when you could still hear the happiness bouncing off the walls. So, I think that speaks to how much I love quiet, it turns out that I love the way it sounds.