When my family was young and life was busy and noisy, it did not prepare me for the quiet that came after.
As the years passed, life changed. The kids grew up and built lives of their own. They no longer needed me in the way they once had — and that is as it should be. They no longer depended on me for meals, schedules, or bedtime stories. Their lives expanded outward — as they should.
And suddenly, the house was quieter.
It was unsettling at first. My life had revolved around my children for so many years that I didn’t quite know what to do with the empty spaces that appeared when they left. The quiet felt heavy. It surprised me.
At first, I threw myself into work. As a crochet designer, I took on more projects, more deadlines, more responsibility. It helped — but only partially. I still felt the quiet waiting when the work was done.
Then Carl and I began talking about going back to school. Neither of us had ever gone to college. The idea started as a conversation, then became a plan. By the fall semester of 1986, we were enrolled.
Suddenly, there was no quiet at all. We balanced family, home, jobs, and school. It was the busiest season of our lives — and one of the most fulfilling. We were growing in new directions together.
But life has a way of shifting rhythms. Just when you think you understand its pattern, it changes again.
And in time, the quiet returned.
Only this time, I understood it differently.
The quiet was no longer something to fill or escape. It became space — room to think, to create, to remember, to become. It became the place where new parts of myself emerged. The place where stories surfaced. The place where writing began.
I’ve learned that every season has its sound.
And sometimes, the quiet is not an absence at all — but an invitation.
Through My Eyes, Gently 