Recently I made a silent meatloaf. I was home alone and just had to turn off the news. This terrible political season has been so filled with unhappiness and hate, that I just reached a saturation point. Normally I would turn on music, or a pod cast, or an audio book. I might play a webinar or have Hulu playing re-runs in the background. But that night, I decided to listen to nothing. To simply make the meatloaf. It was actually pretty interesting. Smashing eggs and breadcrumbs into meat and getting my hands dirty. And being there for it. My head wasn’t somewhere else, worrying about the latest antics of Donald Trump or dancing about mindlessly to Justin Timberlake. Just me and the meatloaf. I actually heard the shell break when I cracked the egg. I heard the weird slurping noise of the meat getting squished. And the almost silent begging of the pugs at my feet. When my teenage son came in the room, he asked what was wrong. I told him nothing was wrong, I just needed some quiet. Which got me wondering when silence became equated with wrongness. When every moment of life needed to be filled with information. Why do I fill every minute with sound and information that is above and beyond the moment? My son stood there in silence with me, watching me smash the meat with bare hands. We caught each other’s eye for a long moment there. Just me, him, and meatloaf. It was great. Just being together for a minute. No demand. No inquisition about his day, grades, homework. It was a great mothering moment for me. Silent meatloaf. Only to end when he said “that is so gross”, smiled, and walked off. I think tonight I’ll make silent chicken.