A musician I used to tour with once introduced me by saying, “She writes quiet songs in a loud time. I think we need more quiet songs.”
I remember being surprised — it was like catching sight of myself in a mirror I thought was a window, and I didn’t recognize myself at first.
I’ve thought a lot about the comment over the intervening years, marveling at what an interesting thing that was to say and also wondering if it is true. I have done more than a decade of creative work since then, work that spans geographies, genres and art forms, and that quality — the quality of quietness — does seem to define much of that work. If anything, it seems to be truer with each passing year.
My paternal lineage is VERY Italian, so I am no stranger to loud. Holidays, family reunions, even your basic Sunday dinner were (and are) fairly loud affairs depending on which part of the family shows up. I’m also a pretty chill mom, so my kids are generally loud and so are the friends they bring home. I used to live in big cities and the sounds of honking horns and blaring sirens remain more a lullaby than an intrusion to my ears. You might be tempted to think prairie life is quieter, but the bellowing of cows and sheep talking to each other, livestock guard dogs barking at predators, the tractor starting up to haul hay and the wind which howls more days than it doesn’t, mean that, though the noises are very different, it is definitely not quiet here either. So, where do my quiet stories come from?
Meanwhile, we are all living through a very loud time. I’m not saying that in a judgmental way. Perhaps loud times are necessary, as are quiet times, as are times of growth, as are times of dying back. But as a chronic self-reflector, this has me wondering about my role as a quiet storyteller. Was my musician friend right that we need more quiet stories at loud times? I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I often think, “well, maybe, but can anyone hear them?” And yet, here I am, still telling the quiet stories, because those are the stories that are mine to tell.
I’ve been reflecting on this with particular intensity lately because I have a children’s book that is about to be released into the world. It is a fictionalized account of my first bottle lambs — Pearl and Theo. They are the reason I stayed in South Dakota; after falling in love with them, I knew I could never again live in a place where I couldn’t keep sheep. I started writing their story as a gift for my friends and relatives and as a little window into my life on the plains — that was 13 years ago. I’ve had two children of my own since then, as well as raising countless bottle lambs. Over the years, that initial offering slowly blossomed into a full-fledged book, growing and changing as I did. But, at its core, it’s still a simple love story about sheep and the prairie and the unexpected ways we come home to ourselves and each other. Also, it is very quiet.
It seems a surprising coincidence that, after floating around in the ether of my imagination for so long, “The Adventures of Pearl & Theo” would come out at a time when the cultural conversations are as loud as they’ve ever been in my lifetime. I’d like to say I have complete confidence in the timing, but the truth is I have lain awake nights worrying that this story isn’t useful right now. Then, I look out across the gray prairie as the first green shoots of grass poke their tender heads up to greet the light, and I remember why I write about quiet things. For me, healing and being healed have never come from loud voices telling me what to think, how to feel and especially not what to hate. They have come from the soft opening of loving the world exactly as it is.
