Camping out in the hotel lobby for zoom calls requires knowing how to escape the vacuum cleaner.

My wife had dibs on the hotel room for her math tutoring calls. My gentlemanly instincts volunteered me to abdicate the space for a quiet corner downstairs. Quiet being the operative word.

The Hilton cleaning lady embodied thorough on every level. Her dust mopping and its water cousin worked their magic in silence. All good.

But then she turned on the industrial strain vacuum cleaner priding itself on producing jet engine decibels. Tile floors joined with high ceilings to proclaim its praise. 

I went in search of quiet. The back corner of the empty on-site Starbucks welcomed me.

Where do you go for quiet when the noises of life drown your spirit? What nooks do you retreat to? What sound-cancelling techniques do you enlist?

Often I need literal silence. The voices inside are difficult enough to discern without vacuum cleaners shouting at me.

Other times I need the right noise. 

A cadre of Jesus comrades who know how to hunt quiet.

A scripture verse that cancels out the shouts of doubt and worry.  

A counselor whose heart aligns with mine and provides a calm corner in a loud lobby.

A jaunt onto a porch overlooking cactus and granite full only of the sound of trees and grasses.

Vacuum cleaners are a gift from God. So, too, is silence.