The Storm

The Rainstorm

Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves. ~William Shakespeare, "Coriolanus"

The library is usually quiet, but today, it is filled with commotion. I am huddled at my customary table with my computer and stack of books, determined to write. To be productive. I left home to escape the perpetual evanescence of my three children, who wake at eight o’clock each morning, dinging brightly like miniature summertime bells. “What are we doing today, mom?”, ding. “Can we play in the sprinklers?”, dong. “Who ate the last red popsicle? You said I could have it!”, ding, dong! “I don’t want to take the dog for a walk, I might get kidnapped!”, ding, dong, ding, DONG!

Clearly, I picked the wrong day to seek refuge in the library. Silence and peace are maddeningly evasive. A man in khaki shorts and blazingly white sneakers is copying the phone book, page by page, at an ancient Xerox machine. As it whirs, clicks and spits out sheet after sheet of paper, the noise sets my mind on high alert, exquisitely highlighting every other sound in the room. The bathroom door, opening and closing. Someone at the drinking fountain.

Nearby, a freckled boy walks in ever tightening circles, wearing neon green, froggy faced flip flops. Thwap, thwap, thwap. “Can I check out these books, mommy? Please?” His huge pile of picture books falls from his arms in slow motion, ending in a slippery heap at his tiny, froggy clad feet. He begins to cry, a slow crescendo at first, building into a loud, lusty wail. “It’s ok, sweetie. Let’s pick them up together.” Snuffle, snuffle. Flop, flop. 

Where are the shushing, tut-tutting librarians? Where, in God’s name, is my peace and quiet? Certainly not in the library. Not today, at least.

A black beetle appears suddenly, flying in just over my left shoulder. It lands Kamikaze style on the white, glossy surface of my computer. Six tiny legs flailing in defeat, black abdomen and thorax flexing and heaving with the effort of what I imagine was his final, erratic flight. The beetle looks how I feel. Exhausted. Overwrought. This feels like a bad omen.

Did the incessant noise drive him mad? Did he just commit hari-kari on my MacBook Air? He’s not gonna make it, poor bugger. “Sorry, little guy. It’s hopeless.” Here, allow me to end your misery. Flick.

Franz Kafka, regarded by many as one of the most influential novelists of the twentieth century, knew the importance of solitude and silence, not only to the creative process, but to the health and well being of our souls. Without ready, regular doses of tranquility, Kafka understood that humanity risks tracing the erratic path of that black beetle who gave up his life on my trackpad. If we live surrounded by constant noise and tumult, we are virtually guaranteed to become exhausted by the ceaseless rhythm of life, doomed to living lives of repeated failure. Crash landings, hard falls and upside down flailing in unfamiliar surroundings.

No matter our place in the world, we must find time within our tiny spheres to rest, find tranquility and be still.

In order to find silence and rest, Kafka said, “You need not leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. You need not even listen, simply wait, just learn to become quiet, and still, and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked. It has no choice; it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.”

Unfortunately, Kafka’s brilliant words leave a gaping hole where my life and current affairs are concerned.  If, for argument’s sake, I decided to stay in my room, waiting dutifully for the universe to unfold in ecstatic glory at my feet, the results would be disappointing at best. In the worst case, I’d be left waiting for the barest crumb of silence so long, some unfortunate soul might find me mummified, head propped in my dusty hands, sixty years or so from now. That’s how loud my house is. Ever tried living under the same roof with with three kids, a workaholic husband and kinetic puppy? It’s not easy to find silence in my abode.