I woke up with something loud on my heart.
Does that happen to you? For me, it’s quite normal. I imagine that on the slippery tunnel ride out, whatever dreams I might’ve been having leave their foggy imprint on my brain — like a carbon copy — staining my conscious mind.
I am not an expert on sleep, nor do I purport to understand how dreams effect the mind; but being someone who both dreams and sleeps with regular attendance, and then wakes up (Or at least I think I am awake; ever since seeing Inception, I’ve had to wonder if . . .) I can strongly argue a case wherein I hypothesize that, the manner in which one wakes will set a tone for that individual. Maybe not for the entire day, but for some time.
If I were an artist — the kind that uses color rather than colorful language — and I attempted to draw my mind in its unconscious state, I believe it would resemble something like this:
Or perhaps this:
Nonsensical. Incomprehensible. Bizarre. Erratic. Dysfunctional.
I dream loud. And if possible, I’m busier asleep than when I am awake. So, more often than not, the first minutes of my morning are not the quiet ascent into wakefulness, but weighted with the certainty that something unfavorably odd has slunk off into a cavern, where it will wait for me till nightfall.
On this particular morning, I lie in bed for a while trying to define the loudness, staring at the popcorn ceiling, and wondering what it might manifest into; or, if it would stay hidden from me. It does that, you know. There was a puppy to release from the confines of the bathroom, however, and coffee awaiting me in the kitchen, so I decided to leave it be for the time being, and begin my morning.
Today is my day off, and while I look forward to the day in which nothing is expected of me, this day is most often accompanied by wildly eminent expectations. Is there a bit of irony there? I don’t know. Irony is one of those abstruse trivialities I keep a constant wary eye on; I just don’t trust it. I don’t even get it, truthfully. So I turned my back on it, or I didn’t, and I read a magazine. I get magazines.
And as I sifted through the rubbery pages adorned with lovely pictures, Pandora’s finest providing soundtrack, I suddenly knew what it was.
It was the Quiet.
You see, I woke in such a tumult that the quiet felt loud to me. And just a bit foreign, too. Naturally I put up a resistance against it. To be honest, at that point of realization, I think I actually turned the volume up on my computer. Noise comforts me. I sleep with a fan. I listen to music when I’m getting ready. I enjoy the soft din of a coffee shop.
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with noise. But I do think our hearts beg us for quiet once in a while. And not an entertained quiet, either, such as what happens when we’re reading a book or gardening or painting or cooking or sewing or . . . you fill in the blank. We need an intentional quiet. You and your thoughts, alone and still. Something unexplainable happens there. It differs for each person; I know this because I’ve asked.
I believe God dwells in the quiet. I don’t think He ever yells or screams. I don’t believe He waves His hands madly and whistles with His fingers. I think He waits, patiently, for us to turn down the music, to shut off the noise, and come to Him of our own accord.
And when we do, His quiet love is more than able to drown out the loudness.