It was one of those lovely snowfalls when thick, heavy flakes bunch together and fall out of the sky like small meteorites descending to the earth. Their impact was soft, of course, but as they continued to fall, their weight began to bend tree branches and build up on the power lines. It was about eight-of-the-clock when the power flickered a few times, and then the house went dark and silent.

Rebecca and I usually think of our home as quiet. We don’t tend to play music, and our television gets no channels – it’s just there as a DVD player when we want to watch Planet Earth. Walking through the kitchen or living room, you can usually hear the strange language of the crows as they fly overhead and the calls of the jays as they swarm over the feeders. Wind and birdsong are part of our daily music.

But when the power went out, we made a remarkable discovery. Our house is actually pretty loud. There’s the hum of the computers, which are often on. The refrigerator has its noises, and there are always mysterious sounds from the basement – the water pump drawing from the well, or the LP furnace kicking on if we’ve let the woodfire grow too low. From our breakfast nook comes the bubbling of water, courtesy of the fish tank’s filter. All in all, there’s a lot of noise.

Now, with the power gone, we found ourselves relishing the silence. “We should do this once a month, at least,” Rebecca said. “Just hit the main power switch in the basement and have an evening when the house is perfectly still.”

We lit a candle and sat by the soft glow of the wood-burning stove. For a long while, we didn’t say a word, but simply listened. It’s strange that this is something we so often forget to do – just stop, do nothing at all, and discover what rests in the silence.
 

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