I’m currently sitting on the floor of my apartment, my computer propped on a small table – my furry friend nestled on top of that. The twinkle lights around the doorframe are on – half of them softly illuminating the room, the other half dark from too much twinkling, I suppose. There’s not a sound other than the soft clicks of the keys as I type. I hear the silence, and it sings.

New York City is known for many wonderful things, but silence is not one of them. That’s probably why this feels so magical – this moment when the cars are taking different routes, when the neighbor’s dog is sleeping, when the footsteps have subsided. All of the distractions have been stripped away, leaving behind a sweet melody.

I know many people who can’t stand the silence – “It’s TOO quiet,” they say. But I adore it. It reminds me of being a kid on my grandparents’ farm, lying in bed listening to the sounds of the crickets singing or of the wind dancing in the trees or of – quite simply – nothing. It was magical then, and it’s still magical now. Perhaps even more so, since this moment I’m currently sitting in doesn’t come too often in this beautifully bustling city I call home.

As I sit and listen to the silence, I realize how much my body needed to hear it. In it there is rest. In it there is nostalgia. In it there is a piece of ourselves we aren’t always able to uncover when the noise of life persists. I understand that quiet can become overbearing and too powerful, but as with anything in life, there is a balance to be found. And in a time when we are taking in so much throughout the day, we are lucky when we can find this little piece of genuine stillness, of complete contentment and calm.

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