Sound

            Silence is loud this morning.  A steady background buzz rings in both ears.  The newest tinnitus variation—short bird-like chirps—sounds off to my right.  Real-time sounds—hum of air purifier, occasional bark of dog, click of keyboard—provide the remainder of the sound of silence.

            Memory is loud, too.  Facebook news of former colleagues—a birthday, a new relationship—stir my emotions.  It’s been a long time since I’ve been homesick for Colby, Kansas.  The nineteen years there raising my children and working my job seem like scenes from somebody else’s life.  I wish I could go back to revisit the people and places that defined my days.  Maybe I will sometime soon.

            Here I live in my cabin in the woods, so far removed from those other lifetimes, and there were many:  growing up in southwestern Michigan, going to college in Iowa, working as a VISTA Volunteer in Ohio, getting married and having a family in Missouri, moving to Kansas for my job.  And within each of those states were lived many different chapters.  For instance, Kansas included the end of the first marriage, a decade of single parenting, and the beginning and end of the second marriage.  Those nineteen years also involved major theological shifts from RLDS to Wesleyan to Presbyterian, my children growing up, three houses and one apartment, and more joys and heartaches than I have time to remember.

            When nostalgia and regret visit me, I turn to words and music.  Now that I’ve written the words, I’ll enjoy the smooth, low tones of my alto flute and the pure, sweet octaves of my concert flute.  Then my wistful silence will be filled with worshipful sound.