My Silence

If I were to count the hours, I'm sure I would find that I've spent more than half of my lifetime immersed in silence. Many of my childhood memories are of myself alone, in a tree, or under the slide in our backyard, or in the attic. I remember my mother finding me alone one saturday afternoon, crosslegged on the cement floor of our basement where I'd been for hours, making puppets out of old socks. I would finish a puppet and lay it in a row with the others, then set straight to work on another. In all I made about a dozen. My dad had left his radio on, though he wasn't around. It was set to his favourite talk show with Jack Webster. I'd briefly considered turning the radio off, in favour of complete quiet. Then decided it was a tenuous connection with my father, and left it on. I remember the conversation Jack had that day, with two seperate women who called in. I remember that I felt close to my dad during that afternoon, in a way that I never felt when he was physically in the room with me. This is one of my most cherished childhood memories.

My mother, when she found me, wondered aloud at the sight of her strange daughter surrounded by sock puppets. She'd noticed that I'd been absent since morning, and had never thought to look in the basement since I was so quiet. She asked if I was lonely. She asked if I was sad. I felt something like tenderness coming from her, as though seeing me there struck a maternal chord within her. She seemed slightly bewildered by me, and I think she wanted to hug me, but didn't. After she left I felt close to her, as I felt close to my father.

There is something about silence, and being alone, that moves me deeply. It is during these times that I feel most able to love, and to be loved. Some people look back on times that they laughed and talked for hours with their loved ones, and count these as their most cherished memories. For them, these are the times that they bonded. Their moments of silence might form a nice interlude in the recollection, but they are not the fabric of the memory. For me it is opposite.

Since I moved here, I've spent time with my mother, and with my two younger sisters, talking nonstop, laughing, sometimes recalling serious and awful events. It seems to be a family trait to speak quickly. Our conversation must appear exhausting to anyone listening in. I marvel sometimes, that it's the same Marian doing so much talking, as the Marian who spends so much of her time wrapped in a blanket of absolute quiet. I value these talks with my family members. They are vital to our growing relationship. But it is when I'm alone again, with no one to talk to that I feel my deepest bond with them. Even our most heartwrenching discussions don't move me as much.

Lately I've been a little depressed. I seem to have lost someone precious, and don't know if it's permanent. I've loved those times that we were companionably silent together, but that wonderful feeling has been missing lately, our silence is weighed down by something I don't understand. Now my long periods of quiet are a kind of mourning. Tonight I lay in bed with my eyes wide open. I couldn't sleep, and it didn't matter because I've been sleeping my afternoons away for weeks now. I decided to get up and bake scones (they're in the oven now). The hours after midnight are my favourite time of night. It's the silence that most overwhelms me, as though I were inside a cocoon and no part of the outside world can touch me because everyone is asleep.

I realise now as I write this, that my natural quiet, and my depressed quiet must appear much the same to an onlooker. If any of you were able to spy on me here in my room, without my being aware I was watched, I'm sure you would not be able to tell when my depression lifts. When it happens, deep inside me there will be a momentous change in my spirits, but my outward appearance will remain much the same. I will be aware of myself easing from one kind of silence to another. I will throw off my dark mourning colours and come out dancing in the sudden sun, but all of this will be happening inside my head, behind my eyes. And I think that's what makes it all the more precious - that it happens in secret, with no loud fanfare. Like Winter giving way to Spring. I hope it happens soon. This mourning cloak is growing heavy on my shoulders.