Sitting in silence

Or how to be creepy in public

There’s no one more average than me. As long as I don’t speak, I get by unseen, especially in a crowd. I like it that way. Going to museums, restaurants, and movie theaters alone—that’s how I recharge. And in all my years of solitary outings, I’ve never once gotten a reaction. Of any kind, from anyone.

At the end of summer, I made a trip to my local museum and its gardens. The bell flowers were ringing pink. The trees were a canopy of sun-gold and green. How could I resist?

I’d been taking a writing course by Paul Kingsnorth, and the homework required time outdoors. The gardens had everything wanted, including a bench in the shade.

I settled in with my notebook and pencil.

To begin the assignment, I decided to take thirty minutes observing my subject. I had to sit and allow myself to be with it. No writing. No walking. No phone. Necessary for the exercise, certainly, but I wanted to challenge myself.

Noting the time and putting everything aside, I crossed my legs, took a deep breath, relaxed my shoulders, and allowed myself to take in the view.

Families picnicking on the lawn. Wedding photos being taken. College students tossing a frisbee. And the wind was brushing my face.

I had all the time in the world, for two glorious minutes.

My bench sat just off the sidewalk near a staircase that crossed the boundary between one level of the garden and another.

I don’t know if a fleet of tour buses arrived or the museum had been holding people hostage, but a crowd walking in and from all directions emerged. The garden paths filled up. Everyone found they had somewhere to be, and that destination took them past my bench.

It only took a few moments to realize that people were beginning to stare. At me.

I touched my hair. Nothing out of place. Looked down at my clothes. Everything was where it should be.

Several people found quite suddenly that they could take a path to the lower gardens without passing my way. One woman made a sharp left turn to avoid passing me and had such daggers in her eyes, I thought she was going to accuse me of not looking busy enough.

I fiddled with the cross at my neck, both because I was uncomfortable, and because I thought I would look like less of a freak if I had something to do with my hands.

It only helped a little.

When the half hour ended, I scrambled for my things. I’ve never been so relieved to pick up pencil and paper.

People relaxed again, stopping at the bench across from mine, resting, chatting, rearranging their children, checking their phones. The world was ticking on. All the cogs rolling. Thank God.

I know there must have been a time when sitting in a garden enjoying the outdoors wouldn’t have seemed strange or threatening. Probably back in the days when I was too young to be sitting still.

Today, the undistracted individual is a terrifying sight.

Sit like that, even for a few minutes, and reality becomes clearer. You see people as they are, including and especially yourself. Curated images are gone. There aren’t any voices crowding out the conversation between you and creation, you and God.

In spite of the reactions to my quiet time, I managed to observe my subject and finish my writing exercise. I chose to write about the wind and, at Kingsnorth’s urging, to see it with fresh eyes. It came out as something like a poem. Here it is, with a little editing:

Cologne, sun, ripened tree, pine, wet earth, stone.

It smells warm, you might say.

An amalgam called nothing.

You smell nothing, because you smell everything.

I am telling you a story of living, dying, and dead,

Here and as far as your eyes reach.

Beyond that, the scent fades.

I’m carrying a world of other worlds,

Waking olfactory,

Directing feet towards fruit.

Physical memory.

Sweet fermentation.

Scent is one of my gifts.

Without it, I leave an unknown.

Who knows what the wind smells like

If it comes without remembrances.

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Painting is by Abbot Fuller Graves, 1913