Clattering Through Life

“Live quietly,” my parents used to say.
As a child, and even now, I’ve never quite understood what “living quietly” meant.

Was it about behavior? Not slamming doors, not slurping my miso soup at the table—
that kind of thing?
Or was it about how to live? Not burdening others, staying humble?

Knowing them, it was probably both.

So how have I actually lived? I think I’ve lived loudly.
Though I do close doors gently, and the only thing I slurp is soba.
So the noise I’m talking about isn’t in my actions—it’s in the way I live.

I’ve probably caused plenty of trouble, and I can’t say I’ve been especially
humble. My heart has always been in an uproar, clattering through life.

But about eighty percent of that clattering—it’s all just wonder.

Someone’s words, beautiful music, a book that shook me, Chinese food so good
it was almost unbearable, a Netflix show I devoured in one sitting.
Something trembles inside me, and I clatter it loudly to whoever’s nearby.
I’m sure it was noisy. I’m sure it was a lot.

But I can’t help it. I want to pack this feeling into a box and say,
“Here—take this!”

I imagine people heard the clattering coming from a distance and braced
themselves: “Oh no, here she comes again.” But I want you to brace yourself.
The louder the clattering, the bigger the wonder inside it.

I’ve never once managed to hand this clattering to my parents.