It's a beautiful day in central North Carolina, one of those sweet, late August days when bright skies and a cool breeze are harbingers of Autumn. It's a good day to work outdoors. I was just reading a piece from the New York Times that dovetails what I was already thinking.(http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/25/opinion/sunday/im-thinking-please-be-quiet.html?pagewanted=2&_r=0&smid=fb-share)
Before I gathered up my coffee and computer to move to the deck, I was reflecting on how peaceful it was in the house. The TV is not turned on, there is no music playing. Jill is in her studio drawing, the dogs are napping on the couch. The kitties are curled in their favorite chairs. Even the parakeet seems to be enjoying the peace of Sunday morning, without chirping his opinion.
I moved outside because I wanted to increase my sensual engagement with the day. Out here, I can smell the earth, the grass, the clover. The wind is brisk and the wind chimes are dancing, belting out an orchestral arrangement for the day. As I listened more deeply, I realized that there is a mower running somewhere, a faint car alarm in the distance, cicadas buzzing, traffic running by. The neighbor's makeshift plastic greenhouse fills and collapses with the wind, like a choir of plastic grocery bags in full voice. Leaves rustle, breeze whistles, birds chirp, chitter, and audibly flap their wings as they pass through the yard. I thought it was quiet out here, but I was wrong.
The part of this article that caught my attention was the physiological response to sound, and especially its effect on sleep. Of course you can become accustomed to sleeping through familiar noises, even trains or planes. We have striking clocks in our house. Depending on how diligent I've been at keeping them wound, anywhere from 2 to 4 antique clocks strike out the hour and half-hour, 24 hours a day. One hangs on the wall a few feet from the head of the bed. I rarely am aware of either the hollow tick-tock of the pendulum or the periodic chimes. Do they rouse my resting nervous system all night long, shortening both my attention span and my life? I find them comforting, reassuring when I wake in the dark and listen for the regular tick, as if for my own heartbeat.
In utero, they tell us, the fetus is awash in sound ---- the internal, organic noises produced by mother's bodily functions, as well as the environmental noise of engines, voices, footsteps, work. I remember, years ago, taking my three-month-old son to a bluegrass bar in Nashville. We sat down front in the small venue, and placed his baby carrier beside the stage, where he slept soundly through the entire set. Shhhhh . . . the baby is sleeping?
I find I need varying levels and types of sound when I write. Like many authors, I frequently listen to music while writing, but I carefully choose what kind. It has to either match the time period and personality of the piece, or it has to be my go-to writing music, the all-purpose album whose first notes set off a Pavlovian writing response in my brain. Headphones allow me to co-exist with my better half while the muse is in gear; Jill can watch a movie or listen to music without distracting me or drawing me in.
On my bucket list, is participation in a silent retreat. I've never done that, but I will. I seek silence, crave cessation of ambient noise, even though it's actually impossible. I walk on the greenways and bring my consciousness into the present moment as nearly as I can. I sit upstairs in my reading nook, as far away from the household as possible, so I can concentrate. I read in bed with my head wrapped in my favorite feather pillow to block out distracting noises. Quiet time is as necessary to me as any other basic need.
It took me a long time to acknowledge this, and honor it. My life is richer for the time I spend in silence.
No comments:
Post a Comment