I grew up before Susan Cain’s book Quiet helped spur a re-evaluation of introversion. I was an introverted quiet kid when being quiet was seen as a character flaw. I remember my teachers saying on my report cards things like, “She’s very quiet but . . . “ and then there would be the good stuff—I was smart or I was kind, as if one wouldn’t expect to find strengths in a quiet person.
Most of my life, I’ve gravitated toward quiet people and quiet in general. It’s hard to find quiet outside of my house or nature. Restaurants and coffee shops are loud. Classrooms are loud. Concerts, dance classes, and conferences are loud. I love all these places, but I often crave silence after being in one.
When I’m alone, I usually savor the silence. Although I love music, I seldom have music on when I’m home alone. I never leave a TV on for background noise. If the TV is on, it’s because I’m watching it.
It’s only recently that I’ve realized how much I miss the shared silence of my relationship with my late husband.
I’ve said many times here that I’ve gone to my late husband’s bench and talked to him. That’s true to some extent, but what it usually looks like is me getting there, saying hello and I love you, and then being quiet for the rest of my visit. That’s partly because I do enjoy and appreciate silence, but it’s also because our relationship was a very quiet one. We didn’t actually talk that much.
I don’t mean that we didn’t talk. We did. We shared our thoughts, funny stories from the day, and such. We asked each other’s opinions of things—well, I asked for his opinion on things. He was not a man who often wanted the opinions of others. We gently teased each other throughout the day and laughed together at silly things that happened—one of the dogs falling off the couch, or the time we were standing naked in the hallway when my daughter unexpectedly opened her bedroom door, causing us to each dive and roll in a different direction . . . and then fall apart in laughter.
But we spent a lot of our time together in silence—peaceful, generous, delicious silence. Enjoying each other’s company in silence. So many of our raft trips were just us on the raft, smiling, listening to the water lapping at the raft and the shore, the oars dipping in and out of the water. Much of our camping trips was us sitting outside together, holding hands, listening to the leaves rustle, the birds chirp, the wings of dragonflies fliting by.
Just a few months into our relationship, we had a dinner together where conversation didn’t really happen. I panicked. I thought, “Oh, shit, we’ve run out of things to talk about.” But I was wrong. He just wasn’t in the mood to talk. He was in the mood to be with me, to enjoy a meal together, to rub his leg against mine under the table. Just not to talk. And once I relaxed into that, I loved it.
I’d never had a significant relationship that was so quiet. Many times when I heard the truism about a good relationship being one in which you always have a ton to talk about, I wondered if I was kidding myself that Tom and I had a great relationship. But then I would spend time with him in silence and notice the peaceful, blissful quality of our togetherness and know that I wasn’t kidding myself.
Tom taught me to enjoy silent company. I deeply miss sitting in silence with him, holding hands but not talking. There’s a special, still calm I got from being with him in silence.
That is something I am realizing I want more of. I get plenty of silence by myself, but not much shared silence.
Many people want someone they can talk to. I want that, too, but I also want someone I can not talk to—someone who is comfortable with silence and doesn’t rush to fill it. I was lucky to have that with my husband and I sure do miss it.