If You Ever Need Somewhere Quiet

Hello, you.

The world has become remarkably good at asking for our attention. Our phones buzz. Our calendars fill. Someone always seems to need an answer, an opinion, a decision, or a reply before we've had time to finish the cup of tea we made for ourselves. Some days I wonder if we've forgotten what quiet actually sounds like.

Not silence, though. Quiet. They're different things. Silence is the absence of noise. Quiet is the absence of urgency. One can exist without the other, and I've found that the quiet I'm usually searching for has very little to do with how loud the world is around me.

I've found it in unexpected places over the years. An empty bookstore just after it opens. The first few minutes of snowfall before footprints appear. The back corner of a library where no one seems to wander. Driving home while the rest of the neighborhood is just beginning to switch on its porch lights. Watching laundry sway in the wind while the world, for a brief moment, asks absolutely nothing of me.

I think that's what we're all looking for, even if we don't know how to describe it. Not another place to improve ourselves. Not another list of things to accomplish. Just somewhere we don't have to perform. Somewhere we can arrive exactly as we are without apologizing for being tired, uncertain, or a little quieter than everyone else.

I wonder how many people spent today pretending they were fine. How many smiled because it was easier than explaining. How many carried invisible things that no one else noticed. Sometimes I imagine that if hearts made the same sounds as aching knees, we'd all move through the world a little more gently. We'd be slower to judge. Quicker to offer grace. More willing to let one another simply be human.

I've started believing that one of the kindest things we can become is a place where someone doesn't have to explain themselves. A place where there isn't any pressure to be entertaining or inspiring or endlessly optimistic. Just somewhere they can sit for a while and remember what it feels like to breathe without rushing.

That's what I hope these letters become.

You don't have to read every one. You don't have to agree with every thought I write down. You certainly don't need to have your life figured out before you come back. If all you have today is five quiet minutes and a cup of tea that's already gone cold, I think that's more than enough.

The kettle whistled a few minutes ago, and I forgot about it while I was writing this. The tea is stronger than I meant it to be, and a sparrow outside my study window has been insisting that one particular branch belongs entirely to her. Life has continued while we've been sitting here together, and I find that strangely comforting. Nothing stopped because we paused.

If you ever need somewhere quiet, I hope you'll know where to find me.

Until next time,

— Jericho