Life doesn’t often feel quiet, but we are told it should be so at this time of year. At the very least, the idea of quiet has been leading me to fill pockets of my day with the balm of slowness.
I struggle often with trauma reactions. My most recent episode felt like an explosion, centered at the top of my skull and radiating down to my chin. I was at work and had to keep going, collaborating, putting my face to the forefront as I watched myself interact from a spiraling cave.
No matter how much I reminded myself that I was physically and emotionally safe, my body responded to old patterns and I felt it moving beyond me, at its own pace. I tried Googling ways to calm down from an episode, finding suggestions for grounding practices that included holding ice in your hands. Should I go into the staff kitchen and get ice from the fridge? Would standing around at work with ice in my hands really make me feel more centered? I work at an art museum, and instead of heading to the kitchen, I took half my lunch break and went down to the galleries to view a small show on the medieval Book of Hours.
Quiet can be found in an absence of sound, or, I believe, in a kind of focus that takes an eye off the self and places it firmly on something beautiful. My responsive body was immediately taken by the jewel tones of Albert Bouts’ The Annunciation (link). The deep blue/green of Mary’s garment as she stands reading is dazzling to my modern eyes.
In medieval artwork, depictions of pregnancy were largely taboo, but imagery implying life and reproduction are still evident in The Annunciation. The day lilies near Mary’s feet, instantly prompt the viewer to think of life and rebirth, even to connect them to Easter iconography. A single orange lays on the windowsill–a symbol of wealth, marriage, and fertility. These symbols serve as quiet clues that there is more to the story that exists beyond the confines of this painting.
The revelation that the Savior of the universe is resting in Mary’s quiet womb comes on the threshold of a moment of contemplative quiet in the home. I stood in the empty gallery and found a calm I hadn't been expecting. A woman alone in conversation with God is open to receiving life changing news, or even merely a shift in perspective. Open to receiving calm to a frazzled nervous system through the quiet of a gallery.
What I need most is not escape from the hard things, but intentional quiet to be with God. I can allow Him to prepare me for what’s coming. I doubt that Mary laid aside her practice of praying privately to the Lord once she found she was miraculously with child, modeling that this quiet can be found in any place, in any moment, in any season.