I love whispers. I love the hopeful whisper spoken across the top of a newborn’s head as he lies sleeping on your chest. I love the delicious whispers of a promise on my lover’s heated skin. I love the painful whisper of shared fears and doubts as they fall on trusted ears. I love the death bed whisper that carries a thank you and final goodbye.
At ten, my mom still came into my room to tuck me in for the night. She’d find me curled on my side, and would reach across me, tucking the sheet and blanket in around my form and around my feet. Then she would sit on the edge of the bed as we said goodnight. After we talked for a moment or two, she would sweep her hand over my hair as she stood. Leaning down to kiss my cheek, I’d hear her softly whispered “I love you, Amy Elizabeth”. The last words of the day as I drifted to my dreams.
For too many years to count, I tucked my son in the same way. Always wanting my words, in a whisper, to be a peaceful end to his day and safe bridge to his nighttime dreams. And for almost thirty years now, my husband has heard my whispers as I curl up to his back. He’s slept through many of them as I (unknown to him) spoke to him through long, dark nights. I didn’t need to wake him, it was enough to know he was there to absorb them.
Whispers carry an intimacy. People don’t accidentally whisper. It’s a conscious decision to share on a primitive level. Whispers aren’t secrets, they’re just private. And oddly enough (although maybe not so odd if you know me well) I admit I hear whispers all the time. Whispers drift through my heart and my mind; tendrils of stories, poems, or sometimes just a group of words. I hear the hushed tones of loved ones or snippets of conversations we’ve had – sometimes things I said or meant to say. I hear the whisper of change as the wind carries fallen leaves down the street and the cry of the water as it rushes by the riverbank. There’s always, something, whispering to me. Intimately. Consciously. Privately.
I don’t pay mind to the whispers of gossip, innuendo or suspicion. They sap the energy from me and drown out the beauty of the others. I’d like to say I didn’t pay heed to those types as a child, but of course I can’t. Then, those types of whispers hurt. Alot. They hurt enough to teach me the lesson to move beyond them. They made me focus instead on the beauty of whispers, the protective cloak of a softly spoken word, the joy in a shared intimacy.
It’s a loud and busy world we live in today. I often have to remind myself to slow down and remember that words take on a different meaning when they’re whispered. And when we share them in an intimate, conscious and private way, there’s often the joy of whispered reply.
