The wood sign says it all. I don’t think anything is better than cottage life. I really don’t – except maybe being at a cottage all alone, enjoying the sound of silence.
When I arrived yesterday afternoon, I made my way to the dock and nestled into a big Muskoka chair, looking out onto Bob Lake. I looked and listened, taking it all in. The silence was breathtaking. All I heard was the odd gurgle of water..a ripple.
It’s been a long time since I’ve listened to silence. When I write at home, there are patches of quietness but it’s never silent. There’s the next door neighbour’s lawn mower ploughing through his property, the rumbles of the passing trains and the whir of the dryer. The microwave rings when my chai tea is warmed up and the stove has a constant and very annoying ding when it’s finished pre-heating. There are cars passing by and often, I can hear Chris’ voice coming from the back office. As a result, I wear ear plugs when I’m writing in Beaverton.
But here? No need for ear plugs.
I couldn’t get enough of the silence. When I came inside, I decided to keep things simple – I crocheted. I sat quietly for an hour and half, watching the sun slowly go down through the holes in my blanket… and I continued to listen to silence.
It was magnificant… life giving… soul quenching. I’ve not felt such peace in a long time.
It was the perfect way to start a writing retreat.
He who does not know how to be silent will not know how to speak. Ausonius