“Do not speak unless you can improve the silence.” -proverb
Ever since my TV remote went on the fritz a couple of weeks ago, preventing me from being able to change the channel, I have had the distinguished privilege of watching only one station: the one that broadcasts that gem of investigative journalism called Cheaters. The novelty of this program soon wore off as I quickly realized I had no desire to watch cuckolded husbands disintegrate under harsh fluorescent lights while strangers gawked in fascination. I knew I was wandering down a dangerous path when one day I noticed that I could not peel myself off the futon, as my brain had melted like a birthday candle, affixing it’s remains to the cozy canvas cushion beneath it.
So I turned the television off, and off it has pretty much stayed.
The mornings have been the hardest. At first I felt restless, not knowing what to do with my coffee cup if not hold it while watching the morning news. And what about Regis and Kelly, Oprah, The View? Without my morning routine of watching famous people talk to other famous people--or simply listening to them when I would get up to wash out my cereal bowl and brush my teeth,--everything was much too quiet. After all, the television chatter had become my life’s white noise, the constant, comforting buzz in the background that made me feel like I wasn’t alone. What would I do without Joy Behar’s witty repartee? Without Regis’s face-in-the-camera-for-emphasis wild gesticulations? And then it hit me. Maybe, just maybe, I could embrace the morning silence, and start to listen--not to famous people I didn’t know--but to the people I did know, the people I cared about, and the people who cared about me in turn.
I haven’t always been a good listener; in fact I think I’ve always been a terrible one, much too self-centered to stop thinking about myself to truly hear the thoughts, fears or joys of someone else. So that’s where I would start. In an effort to embrace the new silence in my life, I would begin to get in touch with old friends with whom I’d lost touch. Instead of combatting the quietude with aimless activity, I would resolve myself to reaching out, to doing something that wouldn’t be entirely about me.
The Price of Selflessness
It was a lovely surprise when a teacher friend of mine--one I’ve known since grammar school --called me up a couple of days ago. We had a lot of catching up to do as we hadn’t talked in almost two years (the fault of that grad school Ivory Tower that causes anyone outside it to cease to exist).
We had a great conversation, during which she mentioned that her classroom was still not ready for the first day of school. She casually asked if I would like to help her get things organized, as she really needed the help and knew that I really needed to get out of the house. I readily agreed because I did need to get out, but mostly because I wanted to help a friend. I hadn’t done much in the way of reaching out to any of my friends the past couple of years because of that self-centeredness I alluded to earlier, so I was excited about seeing my old friend as well as her classroom.
After hanging up the phone, my excitement about our upcoming visit suddenly halted the moment I looked in the mirror and noticed some things.
“My roots are black and these damn grays are uncontrollable!” I said, pulling my hair up in a vertical stretch. “I can’t leave the house looking like this!” Then I leaned in closer to examine my eyebrows, only to conclude that they were now so bushy from lack of attention that I would need something akin to a weed whacker to tame them. The silence of my surroundings seemed to amplify these voices in my head: “You look like a full-blown recluse! Where’s your beard and ragged clothing?”
Upon examining my upper lip for signs of the beard, the voices grew louder and more critical. They convinced me that I had fallen apart at the seams and that my friend would obviously notice. These were the shallow thoughts that pervaded my mood for the rest of that evening. My friend hadn't seen me in a very in a long time, and this is what she was going to see? I was so disgusted and depressed that I poured a glass of Gascon Malbec, walked out onto my deck, and proceeded to brood.
By the time I’d finished my second glass, my mood had begun to improve slightly. While I was brooding over my lack of grooming, I also perused some of the writings I’d done recently about the things I’d been going through since I lost my job. Surprisingly, I read things that I agreed with, that I believed in, things like wanting to be a better friend and not consumed by material possessions. After re-reading some of those writings, I decided I was going to wake up in the morning, do my best to look presentable--eyebrows and all--and enjoy my visit with my friend.
Back in the Classroom Again
Because of the flat tire on my car that I had no money to fix, my friend graciously agreed to pick me up. When I opened her car door the next morning, she smiled, gave me a hug and didn’t utter a word about my eyebrows. Instead, she complimented me on my hair, and we picked up right where we had left off a couple of years ago. In short it felt just like old times, two girlfriends giggling about boys, jobs, and the crazy world we live in.
The work we did in her classroom that day was tedious but ultimately meaningful. My job was to sort through boxes of classroom books and organize them into a genre-based library. My friend teaches third grade, so as a junior high and high school teacher, I was utterly charmed by such titles as The Case of the Sneaky Snowman, Ice Cream Cones for Sale, and my personal favorite Sit!, which featured on its cover a smiling, tutu-clad elephant sitting daintily on a tiny stool (I joked with my friend that if I ever got a teaching gig again, I wanted that book for classroom management purposes!).
By the end of the day, her classroom had started to look, as my friend expressed while leaping girlishly in the air, like a classroom. Talking to my friend that day, between gulps of cold coffee and mini jam sessions (she has the BEST taste in music!), I couldn’t believe the passion that she still possesses for the work that she does. I mean, she really loves to teach. I listened to her tell stories about some of the students she’s had who have touched her life, and it was so obvious that she is someone who belongs in this profession. Wow, I thought. There really are some people who were meant to be teachers, and clearly, my friend is one of them.
Enjoying the Silence?
After spending the day with my friend, talking, laughing, and yes, listening, I felt like my spirit had been boosted. That evening, the familiar silence that permeates my apartment was more pronounced when punctuated by a train whistle in the distance, a dog’s bark, or my refrigerator’s intermittent hum. These sounds are the new soundtrack of my life, as I grapple with a future that is unknown to me. But I’m learning to kind of like the quiet. I can’t quite say I’m enjoying it, but I am starting to appreciate it.
So while my TV is still on the fritz, and there is no Oprah and no Regis and Kelly, there might just be a little joy.