I hear nothing but the sounds of a distant, rushing river and melody of birds. Occasionally, our old, yellow lab harrumphs her way from the floor to the couch, tail thumping when I stroke her belly. Her sighs turn into snores until they become so loud she wakes herself, flops back onto the floor, and starts the whole process over again.
The house is oddly empty for a Thursday, as is the town, for that matter. Shops are vacant and locked. The roads are quiet, save for a continuous stream of bikers - young, old, suited up in spandex, or simply meandering in sandals.
It's a bank holiday in Switzerland. Quiet is mandated. Literally. The rebel in me dared to use the pressure washer on the awning that covers the pergola for a few minutes this morning. Luckily our landlord, whose home is stone's throw from our own, is out of town, and the nearest neighbor is at least a field away.
I'm sitting in the living room with the glass doors dangerously wide open. The last time I did this, a swallow swooped all the way into the kitchen before turning sharply and flitting back out again.
I wasn't surprised. We live in a barn. It's not like an American wood-sided barn. It's an ancient Swiss barn with stone walls several feet thick, keeping us warm in winter and cool in summer. It's nestled in a valley holding just enough flat land for a field to the south and one to the east. It is tucked so deeply into the hillside that the third floor (housing our landlord's studio) is a walkout. The surrounding hills are so steep that goats are brought in several times a year to trim the grass.
The kids had to be taught how to safely unhook the electric fence just to get to school. The learning curve was steep and shocking, but at least they've earned the bragging rights to say to their own children: "When I was your age, I had to walk uphill to school..."
The goats are gone for the season, but there's no shortage of wildlife. Falcons swoop to catch rabbits and mice in the fields, foxes trot along the riverbanks, cows graze on the distant hills, bees hum and buzz in and out of their colourful houses on the hill, songbirds fill the gardens.
There is a rushing river just beyond the field and a flour mill (that was once powered solely by the river) across the way. The icy water comes from the glaciers in the mountains above, and there is a pebble beach where we like to go and have a dip on hot summer days.
From the upstairs windows we catch glimpses of Lake Geneva and the Swiss Alps just beyond. It is truly an oasis. And today, at least for a few hours, it is all mine.
Aaron and Maddie drove to Italy for some father-daughter bonding time over the long weekend. The benefits of having a big family often come at the expense of individual attention, so we've decided to try to take some short, solo trips with each child this year.
Parker just finished his exams, so he and his friends will have a night on the town. Geneva has several teen-only nights per year, serving beer and wine to those 16+. They will take public transport and crash here later tonight (or, more accurately, early tomorrow morning). I will write another post about alcohol and Switzerland one day. It's a whole thing.
Jack and Caleb are off at a friend's house playing dungeons and dragons with a sweet group of young boys. When they are finished, they will walk through the woods, up the hill, past the soccer fields and cemetery, through the village, and back home again. It's a 30 minute walk, and it's just a part of Swiss life. They love it.
So here I am, soaking in the quiet, natural soundtrack. I'm basking in the solitude and grateful that it actually feels like a gift. I know sometimes being alone and can feel, well, lonely. But this? Today, this feels like peace. Maybe it's because I know that everyone's coming home. Maybe when they are grown and gone it will feel different. But I hope not. I hope I can hang on to the lessons I've learned about gratitude.
Because for me, the difference between solitude and loneliness is always gratitude. When I take the time to name, appreciate, and focus on all the little tangible gifts of the present moment, my life is sweeter. And, I realize, I've never really been alone.
“And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20 NLT)
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