Coming home to an empty house is eerie, even in broad daylight. There are strange creaks and clicks. Whistling drafts reveal themselves through cracks and doorways when there is no one else in the house.
I am accustomed to a house filled with voices and noise: laughter, instruments being practiced, “What’s for dinner?” being shouted, or the shower running for far too long. I’m used to hearing footsteps overhead, before they recede across the ceiling the way a shooting star appears in the corner of our eye, then disappear just as suddenly, leaving us to wonder if we only imagined it.
The house I live in is a noisy one of guitar licks, drum solos, and the monotone hum of a hair dryer after my daughter has changed her hair color yet again. Oh, and a dog that barks violently at any squirrel that dares to dart past our front window.
But I find myself living in a silent house, with plenty of creaks and groans and unexplained tapping noises coming from pipes hidden behind walls. My husband is traveling for work and my daughter is far away on a school trip, and I have had four days to adjust to this silent house. I come home after work and say, “I’m home!” out of habit before I realize that I’m talking to myself. I’ve run the whole gamut of emotions, from the thrill of ice cream for dinner, to checking my phone longingly for texts from my traveling family, to piling the couch high with pillows and settling in with a favorite blanket to watch a movie that I know will make me sob. As predicted, I did sob, and instead of quietly suppressing my sniffles and hiccups, I leaned into my tears and immersed myself in the tragedy of the film’s protagonist. Watching a good, sad movie is singularly cleansing. My supplies are at the ready: a balled-up Kleenex for my tear-stained cheeks in my left hand, a fudge stripe cookie in my right.
Being home alone is reminiscent of the hundreds of babysitting jobs in my teens, when I would successfully get the children to bed, hoping the parents would stay out an extra hour so I could watch late-night reruns of old sitcoms. Being the youngest of four children, then in turn becoming the mother of four more has always made me appreciate stolen hours of quiet.
What the past few days have taught me is that I am a true introvert who needs a tune-up every so often. I enjoy people very much, but there is a certain way I give myself a pep talk before going out to social events, and each time I return home, relief washes over me. My social side has an expiration date I must adhere to. Like Cinderella, I also turn into a pumpkin at midnight (or before). Having the house to myself feels like an indulgence, but it’s really more of a necessity. A charging station.
I recently read about silent book clubs, groups that meet regularly not to discuss books or chat over wine, but to read their book of choice silently in the company of friends. This appeals to me very much. There was a quote from Susan Cain, author of Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. She said, “It’s just the most amazing thing to see the introvert revolution literally remaking the way we organize society — this time, the world of book clubs.”
Is there an introvert revolution? I’ve never been part of a revolution before, but if I were, this would be the one I sign up for. I would happily attend a silent book club meeting, reading beside others without the expectation of idle chit-chat. If the stats are true — that more than 500 chapters of silent book clubs exist across 50 countries in the world, then I believe that in my introvertedness, I’m in good company. There are others like me. Lots of them.
As much as I love being alone, I’m reminded that what I like even more is balance. My whole existence reaches toward balancing the scales between silence and noise, togetherness and aloneness. Too much of any one thing dulls the gleam of it. Tomorrow is the last day of my time alone, and the truth is that I’ll be waiting with open arms to welcome my family. They can be so noisy, but they are mine. My mind has cleared enough for now to allow me to accept the sound of guitar chords being figured out, the clattering of dishes in the sink, the footsteps down the hall, and the sound of the TV blaring with a show that I didn’t choose nor do I want to watch. I offer my thanks to the introvert gods that made these few days possible, so my mind and heart could quiet down — enough to feel like myself again.
