Quiet. I live in quiet – well except for the tv, the fan, and my pups. My phone, on silent vibrate, doesn’t ring, not because of the settings but because no one calls.
The laundry sits in baskets, folded and quiet, as laundry is. I crochet while the pups nap. This is my quiet – tv telling a story and the fan whirring. This is my quiet. I’ve watched too many series’ to completion simply listening as I crochet. It’s sort of like a story being read to me. Though oddly, I don’t like audible. Go figure. I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m used to the voices of the shows I watch.
So knowing I need to do something after four long years of this quiet. My quiet. I need to write. But each time I try I blank, or lose interest.
Lately I’m frustrated with the quiet. I’ve come to know the “new” me in my “new” normal. Someone who didn’t exist four years ago. The “new” me has to fight fear. Has to go to therapy and take meds – having to pack the pills weekly like an 85 year old.
The “new” me has com to enjoy being alone – well, with the pups. Has come to patience in the waiting, though, come to think of it, I don’t know what I’m waiting for. So I continue to wait. In my quiet world, I wait. I’m okay with it, really, I am. I anticipate the event after the waiting.
Quiet. Patient. Waiting.