A sound you hear…

Those moments of silence we often wish for? I have them, although I’m not complaining. Each one is much like a refresher, a welcome pause, from life’s daily ruckus. Finding that necessary mental space as time keeps hurling fast-pitched thoughts at you can be a blessing. Silence is a sound you hear.

For a brief time, I can listen to rain softly falling, almost appreciating the sound as opposed to focusing on how it might impact plans which are on my schedule. Music drifts into my office from the kitchen and the song playing brings back a memory or two. Memories. They have a way of waiting until you stop long enough to let them in the door; that only happens when the sounds of silence take over.

Wrapped in the surrounding quiet, I hear footsteps running up my stairs and I think back to when my grandchildren were little and needed me more than they do now. I miss those precious sounds. I miss those precious “little’s” in my life even more.

Off in the living room, a chiming clock signals the passing, or arrival, of one more hour. This monitor of passing time seems even louder when everything else is so quiet. It makes me wonder just how many more chimes will I hear as time keeps moving along at warp speed?

A beep in the kitchen signals the shutdown of the coffeemaker, reminding me that another cup is called for while I can enjoy it in my silent surroundings. There is just something about doing that, whether early in the morning before the rest of my world awakens or, at any moment, where it’s just me and silence, my old friend.

From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: Listen to the sounds in your house for 5 or 10 minutes. Write about what you hear.


Twenty-two years


Tragic events which leave deep emotional scars on those left behind tend to soften as time passes.  But not always.  Not even after these twenty-two years when, on that beautiful September morning, each of our lives were severely impacted by the willful, destructive ideology of radical Islamic extremists.

As I sat and watched the yearly ceremony in New York City, it seemed to hit harder than in previous years.  It was almost as if it had just taken place for the first time.  The incredible pain of watching innocent lives disappearing as two majestic icons collapsed into clouds of smoke and twisted metal was beyond overwhelming. 

My personal reaction might have been due to spending time at both the Freedom Tower and 9/11 Museum with my family.  The footprint of the North Tower had us walking on what I deemed sacred ground; there was a sense that many who had perished were watching over each visitor, perhaps looking for a familiar loved one, waiting to send some spiritual comfort to those left behind.

Today, I again watched, and listened, as names were read by family members.  Their tears gently fell as they spoke about the losses they suffered, each vowing to never forget.  Brave families, with such unimaginable voids in their lives, who took time to share sweet stories and express their love as they looked to the heavens.

Twenty-two years have passed; many more will follow.  Ceremonies and observances will continue.   One day, the September 11th tragedy will become a chapter in history for generations that follow.  That is, until those generations walk on hallowed ground and learn to never forget.


Later is now…

Along with my first cup of coffee, daily stresses and worries set in; I think about them for a bit, a bit longer, and end up carrying them with me all day long. I do my best to let go of this baggage and focus on things positive, like family; grateful that they are here and reminders that they represent life’s beginnings and love which will never end.

My focus turns to doing whatever I can to help others and reap the heartwarming rewards of seeing their emotions; I remind myself to use the talents I have and not allow others to minimize my capabilities.

In all which surrounds me, memories are tucked away; things forgotten by my family, a few things they no longer need but things I hold on to. Shells gathered at a beach, pictures drawn by my children and grandchildren, a few drops of a perfume once worn by my mother.

So many pleasantries to think about but, for now, the overwhelming fear of the unknown, all that’s so uncertain and so much which needs to be done takes center stage in my mind; it may be too late to be more, to do more, in this lifetime.

I’ll get back to whatever my happy place is, later.

From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop: Write a blog post in exactly 7 lines. Write a blog post that ends with the word: later.