quiet

I Love the Anticipation – ND #52

Posted on by Lisa Weikel 2 Comments
Last Night’s Sunset – Photo: L. Weikel

I Love the Anticipation

I’m sure I’ve written about it before, but I love the anticipation of a major snowstorm. There’s a slightly different feel to the prospect of getting ‘snowed in’ since the pandemic began, but the magic persists in my heart. Standing outside in the darkness of the night with only the faint hissing sound of snowflakes as they race each other to the earth, I feel connected to everything.

Can you tell? I just came inside from taking the pups out before bed. Pacha wanted to scamper about and play in the falling snow while Brutus couldn’t do his business fast enough before heading back inside.

I’m sure he’ll play with Pacha tomorrow. (She makes it irresistible.) Just like cavorting on frozen puddles. It took me a couple of times showing them how I slide on the puddles, but eventually Pacha realized just how much fun that could be. And yet again, Brutus ‘likes’ it, but mostly seems to only join in because Pacha eggs him on.

Moments before Brutie’s legs slipped out from under him – Photo: L. Weikel

Blizzard Up the Coast

Here I am, waxing rhapsodic over the prospect of a ‘major snowstorm,’ (“Kenan”) when along the coast (literally) they’re facing the arrival of a full-on blizzard. Yes, it’s true: I would relish that experience. I know I should probably be more ‘adult’ and pragmatically consider the ramifications of such a weather event. But I think I have an idealized notion of experiencing a blizzard from reading the Little House on the Prairie* books.

The idea of snuggling up all warm and toasty in front of a fire, reading books, making stew, and reveling in the muffled silence of the outside world is compelling. It also neatly dovetails with the rest of the messages I’ve been receiving this week, especially the one brought by the Rune Isa (Standstill). Truth be told, I’m still working on integrating that message.

Not Even That Much

Sadly, though, it seems we’re not even going to get that much snow in the grand scheme of things. Maybe 6” or so? Ugh, I just checked the Weather Channel again and it’s down to a predicted 3” – 5”. How disappointing. Hardly the 24” – 30” they’re calling for Boston to receive.

Maybe I’ll post this and go back outside all by myself. We’ve kept the Christmas lights up for just such an occasion. Well, brightening the dark nights no matter what – but also making the snow look like stained glass during storms like this.

I’m realizing how many little things about this time of year bring me joy.

I definitely feel a need to listen to the snow. No human voices. Just Nature.

Lights in the snow – tonight – Photo: L. Weikel

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(T+52)

Thrashing – Day 881

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Thrashing and Throwing – Photo: L. Weikel

Thrashing

I’m sitting here in my living room, my front door open to let in the sounds and cool breeze of the spring evening. I’m tired. My back aches. A car just drove by. One of only a handful the whole evening, it seems – and it made me realize just how eerily quiet the night is tonight. I can count on one hand the number of cars that have whooshed by. It’s almost as if the world’s finally stopped thrashing about and is ever so tentatively slowing down and taking a breath.

I spent a while in our attic this afternoon trying to clear out some old stuff that just needs to go. What am I saving this stuff for? I find myself asking this question ad nauseum lately. My need to dramatically shake stuff up is acute. Not just in the attic. Everywhere in my life.

I’m not sure what’s driving it, but the urgency feels relentless.

I’d like to note that spending any amount of time in the attic is back-torturing work because it’s literally impossible to stand up straight anywhere up there. There’s probably a metaphor there that I’m either missing or choosing just barely subconsciously to ignore. Either way, I was willing to endure the discomfort and push myself onward – until the lights went out.

Lights Out

<<Blink>> Out they went. I’d just sat down to rest on a stored sleeping bag after using the shop-vac to suck up the relentless detritus created by a very old slate roof. It didn’t matter that the sun was out and it was early afternoon. Only slivers of natural light illuminate our attic on the best of days, and sadly that’s because random hailstones have put a few small holes in our slate roof, which we’ve repaired with translucent caulk. We have a couple of windows, but they’re very small and very dirty and they just weren’t designed to provide an abundance of light in our attic.

So when the lights went out, I was in the dark. The message was clear: it was time to get out. I’d done what I could in this venue.

Shifting My Focus

Begrudgingly, I lugged a very long, industrial-grade, extension cord back down the spiral, pie-shaped staircase leading from the attic into our bedroom. The stupid cord, an ungainly length, hadn’t worked anyway. I was going to have to test it because I’d wasted an inordinate amount of time trying to get the shop-vac to work, only to reach the irritating conclusion that none of this might not be the shop-vac’s fault, even though I’d been mercilessly cursing the appliance under my breath.

Turned out it was the extension cord. Who’s ever heard of such a thing? How many times have you heard of an industrial grade extension cord ‘going bad?’ Maybe it happens all the time. I don’t know. But I can tell you: it irked the heck out of me today.

After gathering up the 25’ cord and stuffing it into a garbage bag, I shifted my focus (some would call it the Eye of Sauron) toward our barn. Surely there was something in there I could pitch. (Ha – I scoff at the mere suggestion I’d have to do anything more than open a door before discovering items that could be banished from the premises forthwith.) Oooh yeah. Plenty of stuff to either resurrect or purge. This has been a long time coming – and today felt as good a day as any to end the madness.

A Sense of Urgency

More and more, I’m realizing how desperately we (I) need to do this. And we (I) need to do this now. Freeing up our (my) psychic and physical space is going to make more of a dramatic difference in our lives than anything else we could do at this moment in time. (And even if it’s only my psychic space that’s cleared – that will unquestionably impact Karl’s life as well.)

As quiet as the outside world seems tonight, I sense the same is attainable for my inner environment. If I stop thrashing and persist in doing the work to shed the remnants of hopes fulfilled and then forgotten – or never attained, perhaps I’ll finally have room to manifest the ones that matter to me now.

(T-230)

Quiet Times – Day 815

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Stalking the Sunset – Photo: L.Weikel

Quiet Times

Most of the walks Karl and I have taken over the past few days have been in silence. Sometimes that happens because we’ve had an argument and neither one of us wants to speak to the other. Other times, though – the peaceful quiet times – we’re often walking in awed silence, overwhelmed by the cacophony of colors and configurations Nature paints before our eyes.

Tonight was one of those peaceful quiet times.

We both were lucky enough to be ending a day in which we found ourselves lost in our work. Lost in that positive sense of becoming so immersed in what we were doing that hours slipped by without notice. Even better, our enchantment was a result of focusing on matters that foster creative thought, new horizons, and whisper of possible adventures.

And so it was when we pulled our heads from the clouds and looked at each other across the room, with Spartacus expectantly glancing from one to the other of us, that we realized he was jonesing for a walk. What time was it? Suddenly we realized we might miss another sunset if we didn’t drop everything at that very moment and get ourselves outside now.

Photo: L. Weikel

Widdershins

Oh, but when we walked outside, the condition of the western sky defied description. It went without saying that I would try to capture at least some of the meteorological artistry for later, for now, but to do would entail ‘going widdershins.’

Going widdershins simply means walking (or whatever) counterclockwise – not unlike unscrewing a jar. We are admittedly creatures of habit, Karl and I. We mostly walk clockwise. But every once in a while – even energetically – it’s a healthy thing to walk in the opposite direction than we usually do. It gives us an opportunity to let things go, to see our usual route from a different perspective, to loosen things up. It’s a simple part of a healthy energetic practice.

None of those were the foundation of my suggestion we go widdershins tonight, though. No. I suggested it because I knew the sunset wouldn’t wait for us to make it around to my favorite spot for sky snapping. Any chance of capturing even the briefest of breathless moments would have to be deliberately stalked.

So we did. And we were rewarded.

Winter Sunset – Photo: L. Weikel

Hardest Part

The hardest part of our walk this evening was choosing which photos to send to my laptop for inclusion in this post. Sharing tonight’s peaceful quiet time was a balm to my soul. I’m pretty sure Karl feels the same. He didn’t say – but the sunset reflected in his smiling eyes.

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Quiet – Day 608

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Photo: L. Weikel

Quiet

The wet wool blanket mugginess of the day most definitely influenced the timing of our walk today. There was no way I was interested in stepping foot anywhere while the sun beat down on us. Eventually, of course, every sun must set, and lucky for us, we no longer had to dodge the raindrops. We could walk in peace and quiet.

We’ve noticed dramatically fewer planes in the sky lately. And it’s a blessing when we walk and managed to avoid encountering any cars. A blessing and an experience that’s rarer and rarer.

As we rounded the last few corners on our trek today, we noticed how much quieter everything is right now. Even the insects sound diminished – almost as if they’re whispering.

Quiet is Disappearing

The eerie silence of our walk this evening (especially the insects seeming to hush themselves) made me think about an article I’d read recently that I wanted to share with you. It’s on the art of listening to silence, which some of you might know is a particular delight of mine.

Reading this reminded me of just how precious and rare it is to be able to find anywhere where we can ‘be’ and not hear one single human-made noise.

This is seriously tragic.

Quiet Parks International

One of the heartening discoveries I made in the article I linked above is the fact that there is an organization dedicated to encouraging parks to become ‘quiet parks.’ What a gift to the world!

Just for curiosity’s sake, I challenge you to spend some time outside and notice whether you can ever actually achieve some moments without even the smallest human-generated sound tickles your eardrums.

It’s a real ear-opener.

Rawr (chomp chomp)- Photo: L. Weikel

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All’s Quiet – Day 407

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Rainbow – Photo: L. Weikel

All’s Quiet    

I’m sitting here in the silence of my living room (if you don’t count the snoring of Sheila and Precious) – and it is exquisitely delicious.

Karl and I took a walk tonight, once I finally got home from doing some errands. The sky had a smattering of clouds, but we could still see a vast array of stars splashed from one horizon to the other. What we really noticed the most, though, was how quiet everything was.

It almost felt as though we were walking during a snowstorm. You know, that muffled silence that always accompanies falling or freshly fallen snow? In fact, I just read something about that the other day. The muffling of ambient noise is attributed to the fluffiness of the snow, I think – the air trapped between the flakes.

I don’t know; I can’t really remember. It doesn’t actually matter, since snow was not the cause of the quiet tonight. Perhaps it was the sound of people starting to slow down, to take a breather from the inevitable frantic pace that precedes this time of year in particular.

What We Really Want

It’s easy to pick on the materialism of our society and criticize the obligation so many people feel to give gifts to ‘everyone on their list.’ We’re a consumptive society. It’s been ingrained in us all our lives that the way to show someone you care about or love them is to buy them something. And even worse is when people equate the depth of the love to the cost of the gifts.

We’re bombarded from every direction with messages barking at us that this widget or that doodad will make the difference. We’ll know we’re loved or, perhaps even more importantly, we’ll know we’ve made it (or at least tell ourselves we have) if we can give that impressive doodad. And if we can’t? Well. Many feel an overwhelming desire to fake it – and there are lots of ways to fake it.

But I think the real burden is the desire to express heartfelt caring and not knowing, really, how to give that feeling. How do we go about bringing light into someone’s life?

Maybe it’s by sitting quietly and figuring out what would bring light into our own life. Maybe it’s by listening to what our heart is saying over and over and over again – hoping that one day we’ll actually stop and listen.

Time

As we were walking in the starlight this evening, Karl and I talked yet again about having – or, rather, not having – gifts to give each other this year. Neither one of us wants for anything. We are surrounded by an abundance of comfort; indeed, we have too many ‘things,’ if we’re honest. And we have zero desire to buy stuff just because – whether it’s because we don’t want to or because it’s expected.

We don’t need new clothes. In truth, we don’t need anything that can be bought in a store (besides groceries; we do love to eat). Even the most exotic boutique of hand-crafted amazingness would fail to provide the gift that is most precious to both of us. And that is time. Time together. Time to create. Time to read. Time to listen to music. Time to feed our souls. Time to allow ourselves to stop thinking about selling or buying or going to meetings or paying the bills, but instead to stop thinking altogether.

Our greatest gift to each other is making – and taking – time to walk under the stars and listen to the silence. Time to notice and appreciate the quiet, together.

(T-704)

A Quiet Night – Day 159

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Photo: L. Weikel

A Quiet Night

I’m sitting here in my living room, the heavy wooden front door of our home swung wide, allowing the sounds of the night to drift in through the screen door. Rain was pouring some minutes ago, but has subsided for the moment. Now I only hear the rushing of the small creek across the road in front of our home that runs the length of our country road and ultimately feeds the Tohickon Creek.

The peepers continue to chirrup and groat, regardless of whether the rain pelts, pounds, or caresses. I wonder at that sometimes. Surely some of those heavy drops that sting us when they hit our skin must take a far worse toll on these little beasties. I would think they’d take cover.

But maybe they revel in the experience of storms.

Thunderstorms are the Best

I’m always up for a good thunderstorm. I love them. I remember sitting with my mother out on the front porch of our stone farmhouse, about half an hour north of here. We would watch most storms approach from the west, marching down the valley toward the Delaware River, from our right to our left. Mommy always said that storms would go down one side of the valley, run into the river, and come back up the other side. I never understood this meteorologically (and perhaps storms didn’t actually behave that way), but it always did seem as though we’d experience two rounds of thunder and lightning when a system would move through.

Listening to the rain pick up in intensity again, I’m reminded this be could urging the grass – especially the wild onion, which runs rampant throughout our lawn, to reach heights that will require us to ‘take measures’ to reduce it to a manageable length. We’re into dandelions, too, and whatever else actually wants to live in our lawn – except poison ivy! – such as a recent abundance of mosses making their way across our front yard.

I’ll probably write soon about the mosses that have begun proliferating in our lawn, taking over where the grass was growing thin. Moss is quite beautiful, especially if you let yourself get down on the ground and really look at it closely. It’s amazingly intricate! And so soft to walk on with your bare feet.

Have the Peepers Gone to Sleep?

It sounds like the wind is picking up now. I notice the peepers have stopped singing entirely – at least for the moment.

Wishing all of you a lovely evening (if anyone is awake and reading this) filled with peaceful dreams and deeply restful sleep. And if you’re reading this in the morning? Breathe deep and celebrate this holiday weekend. Passover, Easter, or simply the joy of springtime making its presence known to us again. Giving us hope for all life.

Photo: L. Weikel

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