I used to always have music playing around the house. I would fall asleep to music, and in the morning my iPod was set to wake me. This, or some variation thereof, was my routine from the time I was small.
And then something changed. I can’t recall now when, but I suspect it had something to do with a few particularly stressful points in time. Now I mostly exist in the near-silence of a quiet house.
Sure, the cats and I chatter, and I often sing to them. The lamp timer offers a gentle ticking, and I can hear my roommate dipping her spoon into a bowl of soup. The music in my home these days is more often a miles-away train announcing its passage through town or an ambulance’s siren blaring as it travels to the nearby hospital.
This new routine may be unusual for someone whose career has been based in part on music writing. It’s certainly reduces my familiarity with new music, but no matter. I’ve found peace in the quiet.
This happened to us, too. I don’t remember when or why.