The divine silence of 2020

Isolation's upside

Please do not despair, though your current existence may seem like an imitation of life. 

It may be closer to the life you were meant to live. 

You will probably never have this experience again, and years from now you may long for it.

I, too, miss the moments I used to have with other people, the friends and the strangers and the people I knew just a little bit. I loved my time with those almost-strangers, discovering the richness of soul they had to offer to the world.

I miss the moments in a small restaurant where the owner knew exactly how to make me feel comfortable and delighted. The little dish of whipped cream with the coffee. The napkin folded like a tent.

But if God lives in the world, and I fondly hope that to be the case, divine presence was hard to notice when life seemed more normal. 

The world was too noisy, too chaotic. I have come to the conclusion that peace and beauty exist not only in the things we see and hear, but in the silence between things.

When I was young, employed demolishing building interiors by hand, there were many times when I broke into the interstitial spaces, those places between this and that where no person may have intruded since the beginnings of the structure. There was a treasured moment when that ancient peaceful air was freed from the quiet and lonely place of its dwelling. Surfaces unseen for decades were visible once more.

I would put down my hammer and feel the peace that had so long maintained itself in the wall or under the floor as it lived its last moment. Sometimes I would be joined by other laborers who reached out to touch the clean, unchanged bricks of generations past.

Fifteen years ago, I slept in a field at Louisiana State University, waiting to be assigned to a rescue and recovery mission in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. I awoke early, when my fellows remained asleep, and the world around me was still dark, and quieter than ever before.

The paucity of sound natural to a place separated from buildings and streets had been enhanced by the hurricane itself. For a few days, there were no birds or insects to greet the dawn in anticipation. I could hear my own breathing, feel every leaf against my skin.

I thought of my five-year-old daughter in Chicago, and my mind was able to capture her image, and that of her mother, even more vividly, it seemed, than if I had been with them at home.

The minimal sensory input helped me realize how important they were to me. It was like experiencing love undiluted by the distraction of life itself.

And now, as familiar activity in our everyday lives has been significantly reduced, the interstitial spaces of peace have spread. As a result, we all have had experiences we never dreamed of.

One night, sitting on the balustrade of a friend’s porch, we reacted with wonder as we clearly heard the sound of the Red Line passing through Rogers Park on the way downtown. It was a mile and a half away. The sound was transported through a stillness that may have not been present since the days of the Pottawatomie.

A few days ago, I walked out my front door to find the street and sidewalks empty of traffic, and the lawns covered with big oak and maple leaves. I shuffled through them several times, alone with the jumping leaves and the crunchy sound of their disruption. It was like taking a stroll in a cereal box.

I have been surprised by the increased presence of rabbits, foxes, small mammals and birds of prey, drawn to the city by the reduction in our own activity. The best part of these encounters is that these animals exhibit a little less fear than I’m used to. It is like going back in time to a life lived just a bit more in harmony with the Earth.

I miss going to breakfast at one familiar place or another. But instead, one Saturday morning, I sat holding hands, looking out the window until lunchtime. Better.

Even if I never do that again, I will have that moment in my mind forever. It is filed alongside the times in my life when I did nothing for hours but look into a favorite person’s eyes. Many of you have someone in your lives like that, and have experienced such extended honest gazes in recent months for the first time. You may have found it time well spent.

My few precious recent opportunities to spend moments with strangers have, with rare exception, been extraordinarily positive. A kind word that might have gone unnoticed now often precipitates a flowering of emotion. A minute of time brings thoughts of missed loved ones, hardship, appreciation.

“How are you?” has not, to my memory, brought the pat answer “Fine” for almost a year.

People of races different from my own have generally, for the first time in my life, seemed to act as if that doesn’t matter much to them. There could be multiple reasons for this, but whatever they are, it has often made my life much more enjoyable. I hope the feeling grows.

One morning soon, I plan to awaken very early, trusting in a weather prediction. I’ll go out back to look at a block of glittering snow lit up here and there by the alley lights. A thick white blanket will cover the asphalt, cap the refuse containers, clothe the houses and garages. 

Ambient sound will be muffled by the snow. The quiet will be palpable before traffic on the major streets builds up.

Soon, a garbage truck will cut neat, deep troughs in the new snow. The drivers and laborers will break the silence as they call out to each other, and we will all wish each other good mornings. 

We will be happy to be alive.  

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