Yesterday I heard myself say to a group of kids, "I loooove silence." It was a comic, slightly exaggerated statement, a way to quiet - even just a little - the inevitable din that happens when a whole bunch of spirited young ones and a whole bunch of little violins are together in one small room. Still, it felt weird.
I love silence? Historically, I've not liked silence.
One of the young ones launched into a story about how they practiced a lockdown drill at school that day. The teacher had told them to be very quiet, and to go wherever she pointed, either the coat closet or another closet. They turned out the lights and pretended they weren't there. "Because," the little one said, "It could be dangerous."
And then I started to realize: there are so many different kinds of silence. Some are velvety and soft. Some are sweet. Some are portentous. Some are full, rich. And some are icy and dangerous.
A little later on during class, after a mock exasperated look from me, one of them shrieked, "You love silence!!" Then, immediately, another (and this was the moment of grace): "And you love music!"
