I find that the more I experience quiet, the more I relish it and wait, with baited breath, for it.

This morning, even with only five people in the house, the walls seem to radiate with noise. Whether baby talk, or phone calls, or feet walking on the pine planking that floors our home. But, just a few minutes ago, the door shut and I am listening to quiet. Leaning against the wooden countertop in the kitchen, my bare toes scrunched tightly, my ears are listening to silence and I love it. I stand there quietly, the only noise is that of the car starting and pulling down the drive and the faint hum of the baby monitor, listening for Benjamins cries. I think about the things that I will do today, clean the house, do some laundry, finish my book, pack my suitcase for next week, maybe do some cooking, and I will do them in quiet. In quiet. There will be no voices echoing down the upstairs hall, or sneakers taking the steps four at a time, or little people asking for a peanut butter sandwiches. When the phone rings at intervals, no long conversations surrounding baseball, computers, the ladies luncheon, how cold it is and whether you like your new basketball. No one is visiting today, except Carina to pick up her newly hemmed pants, no one is dropping by. No one to interrupt my nicely planned day, planned with nothingness.

And I find that the more I experience quiet, the more I am happy with the sounds that surround my life and wait, with baited breath, for the first hand on the door knob and voice to say 'I'm home!'

Because this is the stuff life is made of and with it I am complete.