A worthy consideration from Michiana Chronicles:
I can still feel the prickle of adrenaline, from a dozen years ago, while sitting in Quaker meeting trying to maintain silence, and knowing I was about to fail. The almost physical itch to share a story, an anecdote, a stray thread of personal philosophy, was often impossible to resist, despite the standard that one really shouldn’t speak in Quaker meeting unless one can improve upon the silence.
Silence has rarely been a friend of mine. Like many younger siblings, I learned early on to diffuse tense silence in a room with chatter and goofs. As a student, I was Hermione Granger, flinging up a hand the first beat after a teacher’s question, to spare us the awkward silence of classroom apathy. And as I learned more about the injustices of the world, I saw how silence was a powerful tool of abusers, who bully and intimidate victims until they’re too afraid for their lives to speak up.
And yet, I’m in a season of life when silence seems swollen with meaning. Maybe I’m learning to focus on its lessons.
In winter walks, I’ve noticed how sounds can somehow heighten the depths of silence. Continue (or listen) here....
-- April Lidinsky
