Silence

For some reason silence bothers me these days. I can't put my finger on why exactly. Not silence just in general, but specifically silence when I'm home alone. That never used to bother me.

I've always loved silence. It probably came from growing up in a house full of people and not having anywhere to go to be alone. My childhood was a cacophony of sounds; the TV, arguments, discussions, music, dogs barking, traffic. That may be all it is actually; traffic. I grew up two blocks from the 5 freeway. There was always traffic, even in the dead of night, on the freeway. And we lived on a busy four lane street as well. So the nights were never silent; not ever, not for a second. The freeway made this constant chorus like sound at night as cars speed along. When I was very young, under five, I thought it the sound of angels singing. Why I thought that I couldn't tell you. How I knew what angels were I couldn't tell you. I wasn't raised with religion, never read the Bible, never went to Sunday school. Why I decided that was what singing angels sounded like I don't know. How I knew what angels were I can't tell you.

And the trains. The train tracks were several blocks beyond the freeway. It was common in the sixties and seventies to hear train whistles at night and to hear the engine sound. I've always thought growing up listening to something traveling that fast and that far through the night did something to you; infused you with a wanderlust of sorts.

So there was never silence, even when no one spoke. There was always background noise. And light too. Not only is the Valley one of the most populous, light polluted places on earth, but there were streetlights every few houses. One shone right in through my bedroom window. And everywhere I lived down there in the flatlands there was noise and light in the dead of night. That's one of the reasons I leave the outside porch lights on here. Total darkness is nice, but it makes it hard to navigate around the bedroom in the dark. More importantly though, it's just too frightening. There, I said it.

I'm still afraid of the dark. I wasn't always. But it's still there, tucked in the back of my brain; this fear. It started after the Northridge earthquake. Again, I was living in the valley where there was always light coming through the window. When the quake began I was thrown out of bed and dove under the computer table next to the bed. I held onto the table as hard as I could with my eyes screwed shut repeating over and over "Please stop, please stop." When the two initial jolts finally did stop I opened my eyes. I thought for a split second I'd somehow become blind. There was a confusion between what I should have seen and the total darkness I was in. It was a shock on top of a shock. There was something about that moment that just buried itself in my brain, that moment of shock when I opened my eyes and was greeted by total darkness. I had a hard time with darkness after that. It was months before I could handle being in the dark, even the quasi darkness that returned to the valley once they got the electricity back on. Whenever there's a quake that fear returns, even if just for a few moments.

But I've never feared silence. And it's not exactly fear now that I feel. Where once silence was full and rich with possibilities and depth, now it just seems to stretch out in front of me somehow barren and empty. It's lonely. Why now I don't know. I feel no more vulnerable than before, no more at the mercy of fate or possibility. It's as if there's no longer anything to listen for in the silence; it's just empty. And that makes no sense to me. I feel like I've lost something, but I don't know what. Did I loose my nerve? Is my strength deserting me? Am I simply tired of being alone? The silence is empty feeling and I can't tell you why.

Little Little Lightfoot . . .

That was what I crooned to him while we were stuck on Highway 18 this Sunday. We spent about thirty minutes or so parked on the highway waiting for an airship that used the 18 as a landing pad to transport an injured skier from Snow Valley. I was going nuts sitting there and he was none too happy sitting in the carrier so I pulled him out and we talked a bit.

He's an unaffected little fellow for all his recent trials. He's only three months old and three pounds, but he's already known freezing cold, hunger and abandonment. Such big ideas for such a little brain to live through. I think maybe that's the key. Big ideas pass unacknowledged and only little things register; like a chuck under the chin or a warm bed and good food.

Yes, I'm a Gordon Lightfoot fan. This would in part explain the name. He's handsome with red hair, very charismatic, has a lovely voice and holds meaning in my life. But he's also got four white feet. Light-foot, get it? Yeah, anyway, it's his first name. He doesn't have a middle name yet. I have a tradition of giving all my pets middle names that say something about why they're in my life or what they've brought to my life. I'm still working on his middle name.

I came to realize, watching him bound around the bedroom this morning, playing footsies with the dog from under the bed that I did the right thing in letting Cinny go. I don't care how many times you have to help a pet pass over, there's always doubt in your mind about whether you did it too soon or waited too long or was it fair to the animal to not let it choose it's own time? I know, watching Lightfoot bound about the place, that it's what Cinny wanted. He wanted to have this little happy healthy young body again. I think he knew what came next and he wanted it more than he was afraid of leaving.

I've come to believe over the years that these animals follow us, reincarnating again and again through this life and past lives and future lives. I knew the minute I heard about Lightfoot that I was supposed to take him in. I knew without seeing a picture that he was Cinny. I just knew in a way that defies explanation. When I met him it felt like coming home to hold him again.

Already I'm doing the "What the hell made me do that" examination which always means I did what I was supposed to do. I mean come on, I drove to Lake Arrowhead in Winter with ice on the road and insane people parked in turn-outs. I hate ice and I hate insane people. We won't even talk about what my car looks like now after that insane drive. I personally am praying for a good rain. It took me nearly two hours to get home when it should have taken less than an hour. I met a woman I've never known, sat down in her home, had my crotch sniffed by her dogs all to take in an orange kitten when truth be known I could have gone to the local animal shelter, thirty minute round trip tops, and adopt some other kitten. I think, when you look back on an experience and wonder why in the world you stepped so far outside your life or your comfort zone or your experience or understanding of the world to do something that makes no logical sense, you've done exactly what you were supposed to do.

So Lightfoot is home. Now I just have to get Bailey to stop hissing at the poor boy. Bailey is going to be the hard sell I can see that. The dog could really care less. It's just one more cat. She's thrilled that she can sniff cat butt without significant blood loss, but that's as far as her interest goes. Bailey though is going to take a long time to unwind from the knots she's wound herself up in. All in good time I suppose. What's meant to be will be.