The Silence of Noise

The pounding of hammers inside, the rumble of the bulldozer outside, you could say it wasn’t the best atmosphere to try and conduct work. But I found myself tapping my foot to the time of the hammer. The rhythm of all the work around me was making a symphony of white noise. I was actually finding myself enjoying it. I felt insulated. I could feel the beat that it was making.

Our office is in the middle of a remodel and we are in the midst of all the construction trying to conduct business. Maybe it was my upbringing of being around construction and construction workers as a girl. Maybe it was my parents always telling us and showing us to make the best of situation, but the noise wasn’t bothering me. Maybe it’s all the yoga and inner reflection I’ve been experiencing over the last six months. Maybe it’s the fact that one of the offices they are working on is going to be my new space and not everyone is getting a new space.

It’s interesting to watch my co-workers reactions to handling the noise, the dust and the chaos. You can almost see into their minds by the way they handle it. Some go inward, put their headphones on and carry on. Others have to find ways to get out of the office to conduct their work. Some get angry, sarcastic or even sick. Some are completely oblivious.

I watched a program the other day about a rock star that is trying to find new rhythms by traveling the world and seeking other cultures, new adventures. He was delving deep into himself to discover what kind of direction his music might take next. What does it sound like in another country? The music, the food, the occupations, the people, the landscape all have their own sounds. Maybe that’s what I’m experiencing with these foreign sounds in my office. It’s different, a new beat, the fresh smell of cut wood. The sounds of heavy equipment, the buzz of a saw, the hammer connecting the wood to the building making something new. For me it has helped reach inside myself, it becomes a white noise, a type of meditative silence helping me to concentrate. I actually think I’ve accomplished more during this remodel as I’ve had to adapt and change the way I’ve always done things.

Change is always hard, for some much harder. Change can be compared to the death of something. You mourn for the loss, but if you choose to look at it in a positive light and of new opportunities you might just be able to look deeper into yourself and open new paths. Out of chaos, creativity explodes.

Mom Socks

My 20 year old daughter is working at a restaurant and has to wear all black. So she went out and bought some flat black shoes that were a little dressier than her normal tennis shoes or flip flops. She was getting ready to go out the door the other day and she pulled up her socks and said, "Look, I'm wearing 'mom socks.'" She had borrowed a pair of my trouser socks to go with her new dressier shoes. All she owns are athletic socks. She said, "I guess I'll have to go out and buy my own 'mom socks' now." There was an audible sigh.

Let me take you back a few years. She was in junior high and my friend Martha and I had taken her to shop for a needy family for Christmas that our office sponsored. We did it every year and we thought this year she was old enough to help us out with picking out the items for the family. We always chose a family of five and we purchased outfits and items that the profile said the family needed.

There was a teenage girl in the profile this year. So Martha and I sent my daughter off to find something on the list as we chose socks for the family. We spent quite a bit of time discussing the options of socks for the teenage girl. We were quite aware of the whole "mom sock" theory that my daughter would denounce us with on a regular basis. They had to be just right. We thought we did a great job weighing what we thought were mom socks vs teenage socks. We wanted to show my daughter how "in" we were. All my daughter could say was, "Oh my God! Those are 'mom socks." She then put them back and picked out something else. She could not have any teenager wear something they might be ridiculed in. I think at that moment in time it didn't really matter which socks we picked. We were just lame in every way. I accepted that, and proudly wore my mom socks anyways.

But to hear my daughter say at age 20 that she had borrowed my mom socks and was going to purchase her own, made me think that maybe she was on her way to being that adult she once thought was so lame. Funny how a simple sock can be a precursor for adulthood.