Silence Speaks Volumes

When I was a young child, I never thought that I shared an especially close relationship with my father. I always respected and loved him very much but we never really talked about anything that I thought was meaningful. He would teach me how to do things like how to throw a ball or how to safely use a saw, but we didn’t have the father-daughter talks about emotional stuff. I thought that was just who we were and the relationship that we shared.

But as I got older, I came to understand that we communicated with each other in a different way. From a very young age, I remember watching my father’s actions. And apparently, they did speak louder than words. We never sat down and talked about how we should help family or care for someone who can’t care for himself or herself. Instead, he taught me those things by showing them to me. He was always the first one to offer to care for my grandfather, who was my mother’s father, not his. And when an aunt of uncle needed help with a project, Dad was the first one to put on his tool belt and get to work. I saw this throughout my childhood and simply knew that this was how we dealt with these situations.

My father also taught me that it was ok to share time together without talking. He was an outdoorsman at heart and living in suburbia, the closest thing that we had to the great outdoors was a large state park. Over the years he got to know the trails at Highbanks better than most of the park service employees. Our father-daughter time was often spent walking those trials in silence. Well, not silence but the absence of conversation. We heard the babble of the tiny stream, the chatter of the birds and the rustle of the leaves as the wind blew through the trees. And in the fall, we were treated to the sound of the beautiful red, orange, and golden leaves as they crunched beneath our feet. To this day, when I hear the crunching of leaves I can still close my eyes and feel the cool breeze of those fall days spent hiking in the Midwest.

As Dad got older, the trips to the park became too much, so we amended our outings to long drives taking in the countryside of central and southern Ohio. And the sounds of nature were often replaced with Big Band music which was Dad’s favorite, intermingled with short conversations about the scenery. But when the comments were over, we were back to listening to the music and not talking. And we were both much more comfortable with that than trying to make small talk.

I found my mind wandering on occasion. And I discovered that I had a great appreciation of having the time for just random thoughts and reflection. There was no pressure to share thoughts or feelings in words, or even to resolve any of the points that were coming to mind. It was simply my time, and my time with Dad. As I look back on those days, I understand even more about the value of being able to share silence with someone in your life. We shared respect and love for each other that didn’t need to be explained, justified or reaffirmed with words. We could simply be and enjoy being with each other.

I often hear others who are about my age say that they would give a lot for just one more conversation with a loved one who has been gone for years. They would take that opportunity to say all of the things that were never said or share the stories of achievements that occurred after their loved one passed. I understand that sentiment, and I share those feelings when I think of many amazing people who were such an important part of my life and the person who I have become.

But then I think of my father, and I wish for just one more sunny afternoon to walk through that park. I spent many of my younger years struggling to keep pace with my six foot plus father’s long strides. But I was gifted his long legs, and by my teens, we would walk for miles in perfect cadence. Sadly, all too soon, his health declined and stole that pleasure from both of us. My dream would be to ask for just a few short hours, to walk those trails again in perfect rhythm and hear the leaves crunching with every step. He would see that I am still following his example and trying to live the life he taught me; a life that would earn his respect. He would know that I love him and that regardless of all of the changes in my life, I am still that same person who understands the value of silence.