The Quietest Ten Minutes of the Fourth
By six o'clock the deviled eggs were gone, someone's speaker had been playing the same patriotic playlist since noon, and I was carrying a cutting board of watermelon rinds back to the kitchen when it happened: the screen door swung shut behind me, and everything went quiet.
Not actually quiet. The neighborhood was still popping and fizzing two blocks over, and I could hear my own backyard laughing at something I'd missed. But kitchen-quiet. Sink-quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you realize you've been performing hostess-face since nine in the morning and your cheeks are tired in a way that has nothing to do with smiling.
So I stayed. I rinsed the cutting board slower than any cutting board has ever needed rinsing. I stood at the open window with a glass of water and watched the light go gold over the fence, and somewhere under the table the dog — who has strong opinions about firecrackers — thumped her tail once, as if to say, finally, someone sensible.
Ten minutes. That's all it was. Nobody outside noticed I'd gone, which used to be the thing I worried about and is now the thing I count on.
If you find yourself running on empty at the loud parts of the year, join Quietly, Evelyn by email. I send short notes on gentler routines, quieter weeks, and the kind of small shifts that actually help.
Start with the free guide, 5 Small Things I Do Each Week to Feel More Like Myself, or begin at Start Here.
Here's what I keep learning, on the loud days especially: slipping out isn't leaving. It's the opposite. Those ten minutes at the sink were the reason I could go back out, sit down in the folding chair with the wobbly leg, and actually be there for the sparklers instead of just standing near them. The day had its volume knob stuck on high. I wasn't trying to turn it down. I just needed to stand somewhere the sound couldn't reach me, briefly, like stepping out of the rain.
Then I dried my hands and went back to the noise, which — and this is the part I'd forget if I didn't write it down — I was glad to return to.
Where do you sneak your quiet on the loud days? And does anyone ever notice you've gone?
Warmly, Evelyn
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