Silence On The Lam

By Annie Glass

The author escapes to a place where the only acceptable noise is no noise

As I wandered back to my room, I noticed a little creature hopping in front of my fast-approaching flip-flops. I bent over in greeting to a startled brown tree toad.

"Hi, little fella, it's okay, little fella," I whispered in my most motherly tone, before realizing that I'd just spoken out loud. Instantly overcome with guilt, I looked around to see if there were any witnesses, but we were alone, and I vowed to be more vigilant of my silence.

I soon set out for a run in the now 95-degree heat, thinking only mad dogs, Englishmen, and the occasional alternative lifestyle essayist were crazed enough to venture out in these inhospitable circumstances, so my silence was safe for the time being. I realized I hadn't really run alone all summer, and missed the droll Yankee wit of my amusing running buddy.

I returned to my cell, and in an uncharacteristic fit of communicativeness, checked both voicemail and the much-maligned BlackBerry. I answered e-mails I wouldn't consider opening on a normal day, and knew I was flat-out starved for a little human interaction. I attempted electronic dialog with the office, but they refused to engage or enable, so I logged off sheepishly and gave myself a mental yellow card for conduct unbecoming a silent retreat. I could handle the not-talking part of my retreat. But not having anyone not to talk with was killing me.

The early part of afternoon was spent attempting more reading and reflection, but in now-97-degree heat, it just wasn't happening. So I drove to a nearby island, expecting nirvana but instead finding the 7th level of hell.

The deserted beach's gritty brown sand and dingy, unwelcoming water taunted all comers with deadly riptides and swarms of famished greenheads, descending rapidly on anyone foolish enough not to have bathed in industrial-strength DEET before venturing outside. I later found out this particular beach was host of the Greenies Annual All-You-Can-Eat-Summer-Flesh-Fest. As I fled to the safety of my car, I heard a disgruntled surfer gripe, "Thanks, dude, for the worst day of my life."

And I could totally relate.

Back at Rancho Retreato, I enjoyed some peaceful time getting reacquainted with Mr. Eliot. But as the gloaming approached, I desperately missed my kids, my porch, my sunsets, and the ability to chitchat at will. I drifted off in the smothering embrace of the heat and J. Alfred Prufrock's insecurities, and endured a final night of nonmuttering solitude and loneliness.

The morning brought the safety of light, the comfort of cool air, and the prospect of returning to the real world. After another solo session of yoga, I attempted to conjure up what I had discovered during this mostly silent interlude. It took a hellacious trip to the deep, dark, silent recesses of my id to underscore what mattered most. I felt like I could tackle and, in fact, enjoy any challenge thrown at me. There will always be ax murderers in the closet, monsters under the bed, and greenheads at the beach (not to mention the occasional need to zip my lip). They won't keep me from living my life. Adapt, adjust, appreciate, and move on.

Apparently I'm not quite as anti-social and sound averse as I like to think I am. While I do enjoy the occasional solitary pursuit, it is more fun to talk with a friend about a favorite book on a long run. I thrive on screaming instruction at a field full of stick-wielding girls, yelling like a madwoman during my son's hockey games, and making fart noises on the soft squishy stomachs of babies in order to elicit even louder belly laughs from the babies.

Silence may be golden on occasion, but there are some sounds I cannot live without.

As I drove back down the coast, I looked forward to driving into insanely active weekend whirl of our little summer colony, as well as the job, the city, and the commuting on Monday. I picked up my cell phone and dialed my running buddy. "Yo, chief. I'm headed back. What time are we running tomorrow?"

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