Like most introverts, I like it. Silence. Quietness. Solitude. I seek it. There rarely are times when I avoid it.
I intentionally choose silent times as much as possible, especially when I want to write. The last time I wished for a few hours of quietness was around my birthday. I recall being torn into a million pieces with work and life in general; I recall thinking I’d rather have silence, than any other present. I like not going out to parties on weekends, or to busy cafés. I much rather enjoy a quiet, intimate night, either in or out. The thought of three days in a cabin without music or TV make me feel pangs of longing.
Sometimes I can take it, but generally there can’t be loud music playing while I’m working on something. While I craft maybe, that works, but when I’m writing – forget it. Simple instrumental music doesn’t even help many times.
Like I said in a comment on Carolyn Rubenstein’s recent blog post, the Chef is a complete extrovert. He keeps the TV on even if he’s not in the room, needs to listen to music while doing most anything; thrives on it.
I’ll have to slowly teach him the “trick” of putting headphones on if we’re both trying to work in the same room *winks* That way both of us will be happy and not get cranky.
I’m more and more aware of the quality of silence between me and other people. I’m a strong believer of silence being louder than words, many times. In conversations, especially new conversations I fill in silences carefully. I like finding out things, but make sure not to overwhelm people. But I rarely fill the air with music, singing, one word at a time. I like listening.
Listening, really listening feels like a luxury. Most people are so busy and distracted, that it might feel like a passive action or an impatient pause. But when someone truly listens, it gives me a feeling of hope. True listening is an art, really.
*Blog post inspired by this question from Danielle LaPorte’s The Burning Questions Series.