A new kettle sits on our stove and it's slowly nudging me towards breathing.
Quite small and without a whistle to its name, it challenges me to keep my mind here in our little apartment instead of flying off into who-knows-what.
My transition out of sabbatical and into re-balancing work and creative endeavors has thrown me back into old habits of simply filling my head and space with noise.
I want to be distracted from the to-do lists piling up on my desk and from the people I will be taking care of that day. Anxiety over all of the thousands of details that my mind tries to keep track of. So I turn on a podcast, or a never-ending loop of bouncy music, or imaginary drama (as if there wasn't enough real drama). But, the longer I try to use noise, the more I realize that it's a stop-gap.
Even in the midst of my scattered noise shield, I find myself hungry for the quiet that I enjoyed and reveled in so recently. I want to really feel the cold of the floor on my feet. I want to hear what my mind is trying to say and not tell it what I wish it would say.
So I make tea because I have to listen carefully for that key change as the water goes from a loud simmer into a rolling boil silence.
And that silence is one of the safest silences I know.