It has been an interesting two weeks, folks. I worked late the day before Thanksgiving in order to enjoy the time with my family, free from any thoughts of work, and I felt just dandy. Then, true to that old maxim about our bodies interpreting a vacation as a green light to go ahead and crash, I got sick. What was only a small tickle in the throat as I loaded the dogs into the car was a full blown sore throat with stuffy nose, sneezing and low grade fever by the time I pulled into my parents’ driveway, three hours up the coast.

Not wanting to infect the elderlies, I excused myself early – but the dry Sahara heat of my parents’ home was not my friend, and things got rapidly worse. I spent the holiday alternating between attempts to be social and see all the people I adore, and protecting those same folks from whatever it was I was carrying.

Happily, no one else got sick. Less happily, I stayed sick and while the sore throat left me, it took my voice with it. Yes, I was rendered silent.

Laryngitis is not a stranger to me. A few years ago it left me silent for a solid four weeks! If you are one of those who believe strongly in illness as an outward manifestation of a deeper issue, there’s a lot of humor to be found in that as I am not known for silence as a rule.

Now, I don’t want to give the impression that I am grateful for the illness, I’m not, but given that I couldn’t change it, it was interesting to observe what happens when you are silent.

The first, and most amusing, thing that presents itself is that others tend to meet you in your silence. If you’ve ever lost your voice, I’m sure you’ve noticed it, too. Folks begin at amainewhile normal volume, but as soon as they realize you have no voice, they drop to a sympathetic whisper. This happens across the board – friends, family, wait staff in restaurants, second graders in class, everyone. This is so weird, and so lovely.

With the sound turned down, a surprising level of connection turns up. There is more eye contact, more smiling. Entire classes of students were, for lack of a better word, gentle.

The second thing I noticed was how much of what I have to say is nonessential. I became keenly aware of how often a witty reply or an important commentary turned out, in fact, to be simply not worth the effort of writing it out. Things passed by. Points and counterpoints went unmade. Debates failed to materialize.

I was excused from the obligation of engaging, and that was lovely, too.

This little virus gave me a sort of budget version of a Buddhist retreat. Sort of.

Last night, after nearly two full weks and thanks to lots of salt water gargles, many rounds of tea with honey and copious amounts of sleep, my voice began its slow return. I am quite happy about this. I missed speaking. That said, I am also going to work to invite more quiet into my day and my thoughts. The silence truly was golden.

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