On Silence

50K minutes of podcasts in 2024? Time to turn down the volume...

I listened to nearly 50,000 minutes of podcasts in 2024. I cackled along with my favorite comedians while cranking out countless cookies in my cozy kitchen, taking stretch breaks between batches, reading on my deck in 8 minute increments while they baked. I settled in for slow mornings with coffee & curious musings from people I respect, or who make me think, or even who make me angry. I took long walks around the lakes while learning what to expect with each new astrological cycle, listened to interviews with authors & activists & musicians while I drove to the farm, or up north, or across the country.

These ever-present voices were my companions in deeply lonely times, and were often instrumental in both activating & deactivating my brain in moments of feeling stuck. Perhaps less generously, but just as accurately, they were also ways to escape sitting with my own thoughts, a purposeful avoidance of the silence when it felt too deafening. Now, when I am functionally more alone than ever, I’m noticing just how acutely attuned my body is to this constant noise. It’s in this noticing that I find myself inviting in a little more silence.

It’s -8 degrees, & the Homestead reeks of late afternoon banana bread, sticky with dates & sesame seeds, toasted to a level only Papa would deem edible. I smear it with butter, sprinkle a bit of salt on top, & lick my fingers clean, reminding myself I am worthy of this small nourishment.

I tuck into Papa’s old armchair, clutching a steaming mug to my chest. I resist the urge for additional noise, opting instead for the company of my book, & the wind off the lake, fervent as I am in our mutual hunger. It is quiet, save for the occasional gusts rattling the bones of Lucy’s porch, or tickling the windchimes outside the living room. If I listen closely enough, I can practically hear the bellows of beloveds long passed, which used to populate every corner of this precious place.

When we were kids, my brother & I would run straight to these armchairs each Christmas morning, Grandma’s piled high with his gifts, Papa’s plump with mine. Almost immediately, we’d plow through confections from our local candy shop, the ever present stocking stuffers my dad got as much for himself as for us. One of us kids would be assigned the role of Santa, & we’d take turns opening our gifts until all that remained was a garbage bag overflowing with bright red ribbons, scraps of wrapping paper peppered with reindeer or snowmen.

After tinkering with our new toys, we’d collapse on the floor in front of the fireplace, wood burning & fragrant in those days. On these most joyous of mornings, it wasn’t uncommon that we’d been awake since dawn, my brother so eager to celebrate that he couldn’t stay asleep. Since we shared a room, I’d inevitably rise, too, often ignoring him in favor of my book, reluctant to express my own excitement.

In these lost hours awaiting the sweetness to come, I remember feeling a sort of lingering magic in the walls, the kind so specific to childlike wonder, but also unique to this place that in many ways raised me. There’s always been a sense of ease inherent to this nook of the Northwoods, an almost mandated slowness that’s often enabled me to sink deeper into rest, if only I allow it to do so.

Time is often elusive here, & yet I find it difficult to ignore the imaginary clock in my head, its attempts to bully me into a false sense of productivity a beast I have yet to conquer. Hazy are the days where I’d read or play cards for hours, seemingly without looking up, or spend long afternoons splashing in the lake, interrupted only by the dinner bell & beckoning of whichever adult had prepared that night’s meal. Sometimes, I visit them in the pages of the heavy, dust covered photo albums my grandparents made, peeling back the pages sticky with age.

There, I gather glimpses of my former self like wildflowers: squinting in the sunshine on the back of pontoon; hamming it up with my new guitar in front of the fireplace on Christmas morning; snuggled next to Papa in The Little Red Truck, inevitably heading into town to go to the dump & sneak in a pre-breakfast ice cream treat from the gas station. I crave this kind of ease, and I’m searching for it now, even as my body rebels against the stillness, squirms away from the silence.

In my searching, my tea long lukewarm & my banana bread reduced to crumbs, I’m discovering it’s the quiet moments I most desperately wish to share with others. While I relish my alone time, I thrive most in community, particularly when gathered around food. I covet the act of bestowing treats & sharing lovingly made meals with beloveds to almost any other thing in the world. My ears perk up when I find out my peoples’ favorite flavor combinations, nostalgic noshes or even gas station snacks, & I delight in creating them, dropping bundles of small joy on porches or in mailboxes, surprising them on special occasions, or, even better, on a random Wednesday afternoon.

At my last apartment in the city, I was lucky enough to have a deck, one of the more perfect places to share nourishment. There, I whipped up pre-country dancing dinners for sweeties, impromptu sourdough pancakes for early riser, farm dreamer pals, pre house show potlucks full of farm fresh veggies & corner store candy & co-op loaves of sourdough nibbled atop every towel & blanket I could scrounge up. As the sun shone across the park, we devoured duck fat saturated morels with our bare hands, passed around homemade kombucha & banana bread & beamed through mouthfuls of buttermilk ice cream & plum preserves. Oh, the beaming — it almost never stopped.

Growing up, I also shared countless meals on my childhood deck. My family noshed on heavily spiced grilled chicken & fresh pole beans from the garden, while my father berated my brother into shooting moles straight off the ledge in the middle of the meal. My cousins & I snacked on apples & peanut butter before doing stunts in our inflatable pool, its bright blue plastic fading & springing leaks with each passing summer. My best friends & I scooped spoonful after spoonful of Dairy Queen ice cream cake or Tres Leches straight from their containers, fresh freckles flaming across our sunburnt shoulders. The August after our freshman year of college, I came home to find a few of them lounging out there, tipsy on a revolting combination of Kemps vanilla (you know, the kind that comes in a giant pail), pilfered vodka, & Mountain Dew.

I savor these memories the same way I savored those meals – with deep reverence, care, and gratitude, even if some of them were tinged with exasperation or woe. There is no deck up here, but there are plenty of places to reflect, from the trails my dad & his friends forged thirty years ago to the three season porch I’m writing in right now, the electric stove unable to hold a candle to the wood burning one of my youth, but warming me through nonetheless. Today, I will relish in doing so, in this silence I often turn away from, reminding myself it’s these quiet moments that make the louder ones all the more full.