Friday will be a noisy day. I am part of a six woman show at Crosstown Arts called Six Points. It is our first show. We have spent a year together talking about our work and goals.
Most of the time I seek the quiet. Ever since our vacation last month my ears have been whistling. It's a quiet high pitched whisper that I hear only when I am silent.
Hearing only when it is silent. Like seeing only when I have my eyes closed or tasting without smell. Awareness comes in small doses.
The buzz isn't exactly annoying. I interpret it as an electrical charge that persists, a twitter of nerves, a reminder of the hear and now. It doesn't promote calm or clear the air waves of those nasty little snatches of tunes that catch me in their whorl. (Lately it's Carl Orff's Carmina Burana, O Fortuna, but last week it was Purple Rain). And it comes when I am not ready—not focused on other things—so it always surprises me when it starts up again.
There's a certain depth to quiet that I seek out each day. It's a space that allows for awareness.
Like the day when I was driving and thinking about a good friend and how I needed to call her. It was silent in the car. Later that day she called me.
Or the morning in yoga class when I looked up at the ceiling and thought about how far the galaxy goes and later that day my son posted a shot of the milky way on his facebook feed.
Tapping into the mysterious requires a silent awe, an awareness of the underlying buzz. I am whistling in the dark, reaching for the tactile.
And I do that best in the quiet.