On Being Still

The conductor on my train is named Thomas. Thomas talks a lot. A LOT. And he rarely says anything worth listening to. Oh it’s not just me, Ms J. Everyone at work agrees. The man’s a wind bag. His mouth is like a barn door in a wind storm. My son, Dan, behaves that way at times. I did too, when I was younger. I probably still yammer on sometimes, even though I’ve nothing to say. "Scottie", my character in the play, talks incessantly it seems, always using more words than necessary to get his point across. Psychologists tell us that the negative traits we ourselves possess, are often the ones we find most distasteful in others.

It’s painful to listen to, isn’t it? I mean, if a person has something to say, Ms J, something that will contribute in some way to the situation, by all means, he should speak up. But sometimes, there’s nothing to say. Sometimes, silence is the only real option.

But people like Thomas, and Dan, and Scottie, and yes, me too -- are afraid of silence. People like us find comfort in the sound of our own voice. Thomas drives me bonkers with his insipid chatter at 5:00 in the morning. Daniel’s monologues have taken me to the edge of my endurance in the car on long journeys. And I’m sure I’ve done the same to weary listeners.

My friend Frankie seems comfortable in silence. Sometimes when we talk on the phone, there is a lull in the conversation when neither of us has anything to add. I hear her breathing in the silence on the phone and I ache to fill that void. And fill it I do, with banalities or silliness.

In one scene in the play, Scottie has just told his ex wife that he’s dying of leukemia and of course, she’s upset. Rather than feel his own discomfort, Scottie blathers on about some old movie plot. Eventually, he catches himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I always did have this insane compulsion to fill any conversational gap.”

Let this be my goal then, Ms J. Let me strive to be more accepting and less fearful of silence. Silence cannot hurt me. Silence is nothing more than the absence of sound.



And that’s all I’ve got to say about that.

***