Saturday, January 21, 2012

LISTENING TO SILENCE


One of this first things you notice here on the riverbank is the silence. Well, not true silence, but a soft, natural quiet—the purling of water over gravel, the murmur of wind in the sycamores, the constant music of countless birds. Nature sounds. Soothing sounds. Sounds which don't grate upon the ear or disturb the peace.

City folks often find this silence unsettling, even disturbing. It makes them anxious, all this space in time without noise. Perhaps its because without sound's distractions, they're forced to think, reflect, listen to their own inner voices; come to personally know themselves. 

But live here awhile and just the opposite occurs…you find such quietude a balm to the incessant clang and clatter of modern urban life with its bleating horns, wailing sirens, traffic roar, and persistant shouting. Soon you come to realize that silence is a treasure. A place of silence is a gift, a blessing, a refuge and retreat that comforts and heals, and you vow to never ever move anywhere that lacks genuine natural silence.
    
The exterior walls of our modest cottage are built of limestone, 17-inches thick, which act as a formidable sound barrier. It's practically impossible to hold a conversation between rooms, even when you yell. While it may be a natural silence outdoors, it's an anomalous silence inside. You can easily hear the fire burning on the hearth, or water for tea boiling in the kettle on the stove. A dripping faucet is like a jackhammer. A summer mosquito keening in flight, can be heard all the way across the great room, a distance of almost thirty feet.   

About three-quarters of a mile upstream from the house, an interstate highway bridge crosses the river; the road carries constant traffic. In summer, when the leaves are full in the riparian woods along the stream, you can barely hear the cars and trucks crossing—a mere whisper. But come autumn, as leaves start pouring down, that sound multiplies daily, though in truth the volume probably doesn't go up by more than a few decibles. However it always takes us weeks to get used to the increase.

One final observation. Perhaps you remember the famous exchange in A. Conan Doyle's mystery, Silver Blaze, between Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Gregory of Scotland Yard.

     Gregory: "Is the any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"
     Holmes: "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."
     Gregory: "The dog did nothing in the night-time."
     Holmes: "That was the curious incident."

Due to the big riffle directly in front of the cottage, the sound of the river is a constant, a dull shhhhoooossssh, always there, audible from anywhere outside, or inside providing we have a window open. Except during the coldest weather, we often keep a bedroom window up, and the sound through the screen is the perfect background to falling asleep. But when it rains a fair amount, and the river rises a few feet, the water no longer churns through the riffle. At which point the river's voice is quelled, an unnatural silence that's immediately missed. 

More than once I've awakened into the darkness, alert, wondering what drew me from my slumbers. I listen, and hear the silence…and can then relax because I know that all is well. The curious incident of the silence in the night-time has been solved.
———————
[I was inspired to write this because I read Pat's wonderful post on silence earlier today. If you're not a regular Weaver of Grass reader, you should be, for it's one of the most interesting and readable blogs around if you like rural life, quiet matters, and excellent writing. I've been a fan since I discovered blogs on the Web, and I urge you to make her a stop on your daily rounds.]    

      

24 comments:

Gail said...

HI GRIZZ - oh yes, the Sounds Of Silence' are deafening at times and yet soothing other times - and you are so right that it is a time to reflect, think and I am much better some days with my thoughts than others. The way of life. Here too the sounds of nature are alive - the wind, leaves rustling, the brook babbling, twigs snapping, a distant dog, and traffic miles and miles away on one of the main intersections. I also love the smell Winter, snow, ice, cold, and dry earth - all combine to remind me that it is in the quiet that we are able to understand so much. You know this so well - and I love that about you. Thanks Grizz fr "knowing"
Love Gail
peace....

Angie said...

What a beautiful, soothing post...drew me right into the 'silence'...

The Solitary Walker said...

Oh, such a lovely post on the sounds of silence, Grizz! I can hear your silence perfectly, and the soothing riffled river, from thousands of miles away — so calm and settling.

George said...

This is a magnificent, beautifully written post, Grizz, one in which I find myself in complete agreement. Silence is absolutely vital to my life, for it is the only environment in which I can reflect and think clearly. One of the great tragedies of modern times is the yearly loss of places in which a person can consistently find silence—the silence that permits us to hear at a deeper level, the silence that creates a background n which we can hear the subtle and reassuring music of nature, the gurgle of a river, the wind in the trees, the unexpected birdsong.

Thank you, my friend. This post is a gift.

Grizz………… said...

Gail…

Silence is a wonderful thing, and a lot of folks need a more of it in their life. I'm glad you know and enjoy silence…and yes, sometimes it can be deafening.

Too, let me thank you for something beforehand. You have given me thought for another post, one I'l do in the next day or two. I'll let you know which one, though I expect you'll recognize your inspiration.

Hope the dinner was good and that your Mom is getting along.

Grizz………… said...

Angie…

Thank you. I hope you, too, are "comfortable in silence," like its sound, and find yourself listening to hear it.

Grizz………… said...

Solitary…

I know you're comfortable with silence—need it, even, as I do, and have no trouble finding its gift quite meaningful to your life. I believe, too, you have what it takes to truly hear my riverside silence perfectly, though it would be my great delight to one day share it in actuality.

Jain said...

Nice post, Grizz. Love the dialogue!

We're a bit off the road and don't hear much traffic, though truth be told, I've come to block it out when it's there. Quietest times are now, when snow lessens and muffles the traffic, and flood events, when roads are closed. That's when I notice the silence the most. Ahh.

Hey, did you know that January 21st is Squirrel Appreciation Day?

Grizz………… said...

George…

I would have bet you'd find much to agree with in the post, simply because your own writings have often revealed your delight in solitude. As we both know, solitude is the handmaid of silence. You can't need one without desiring the other. We are both, I expect, often caught in the dichotomy of enjoying certain worldly pleasures—food, friends, art, music, literature, etc.—while feeling the virtuous pull of asceticism. We need that occasional retreat, and in another life or time, might have become Trappist monks or desert meditatives…or possibly wanderers who take to the wild paths and are occasionally mistaken for mystics.

We need silence in the same way we need breath. It is there we find reason to live. There is no substitute.

Grizz………… said...

Jain…

Squirrel Appreciation Day? Surely you jest! Of course we have days for everything else…why not our favorite bushy-tailed, nut-gnawing, tree-rats?

I can't imagine anyone who lives and works and loves the outdoors—as I know you do—not liking silence. It is the matrix of our days. And like you, I've learned to block out extraneous noise…but by the same token, I notice when it is there naturally, without my mental help. And I enjoy that real true silence even more.

KGMom said...

I do love that squirrel portrait. In fact, I think I've seen that fellow around our house.

As for silence--while I enjoy it, it brings a challenge for me. You see, I have constant tinnitus, so the more quiet a place is, the more I hear the ringing in my ears. A little background noise helpts to calm that ringing.

Gail said...

Grizz - I am both honored and intrigued that a thought of mine inspired you. I can't wait! :-)
Mom is good, dinner was delicious and so comforting.
Love Gail
peace.....

The Weaver of Grass said...

Lovely post Grizz and another take on silence - aren't we lucky to live in such places?

I wrote a poem a long time ago which really takes up your point.

'There is a stillness in your field.
Not a silence,
(for the mistle-thrush sings
on the topmost bough
of the hawthorn;
and the beck finds its voice
as it slips over the stones
in the South meadow).
But a stillness
from long ago
when these stone walls were built,
when the grass was sown
and peppered with wild flowers
in their season.

Some how natural sounds don't break that sense of peace and tranquility do they?

George said...

Just a note to tell you that your response to my comment truly hits the proverbial nail on its head. During our walks along the Hadrian's Wall path last summer, Robert and I spent a great deal of time talking about this dichotomy of loving the worldly pleasures you mention, while simultaneously always feeling "the virtuous pull of asceticism." And, yes, I think that, in another time or life, many of us might have become monastics, contemplatives, or spiritual wanderers whose lives are focused primarily on remaining as close as possible to the mystical experience. In this time and life, however, the challenge is how to find that precarious balance between being at part of the word and yet not being a part of it—community versus solitude.

Scott said...

The first time my mother-in-law, who lived in a suburb of Cleveland, came to visit Kali and me, she complained in the morning that it was too quiet and that the bullfrogs croaking in the pond down the hill kept her awake. You nailed it with this post, Grizz.

I'm surprised that you can't hear the interstate traffic very clearly, though. The Pennsylvania Turnpike runs east-west about two miles north of us, and I can often hear the dull roar clearly, especially on humid summer rush hour mornings.

Grizz………… said...

KGMom…

I'm sure you're right about my photo squirrel looking familiar—I'm told he has close kin all over. They certainly do their best to keep spreading the gene-pool from what I've observed.

I guess tinnitus could be a problem, though I would think soothing background sounds rather than urban-type noise would be better. Do you not become used to it in the way you eventually managed to mentally block out and not be bothered by "floaters" in the eye's vitreous fluid?

Grizz………… said...

Gail…

I'm glad to hear your Mom is getting along well. You are so lucky to have her. And your meal sounded liked just the thing in a snowy winter's day.

Don't underestimate yourself—you often say things I find interesting, thought provoking, or a wonderfully different take on a subject.

Grizz………… said...

Weaver…

What a wonderful, lovely poem! One I can identify with so well. Because every so often I stumble upon one of those quiet places whose silence is due, in part, from its history. The past sometimes speaks thus, silently, except to those whose ears are attuned to the ages.

I'm so glad you shared your verses—and glad you enjoyed the post. Thank you.

Grizz………… said...

George…

I'm not at all surprised that you and Robert talked of such matters; I would be surprised if you hadn't, for I think we're all three enough alike in this regard to recognize a kindred spirit—and it's only logical then, given the opportunity, the conversation would sooner or later turn to this contrariety.

This has been a part of my make-up all my life, a duality I became aware of early on and have always lived and fashioned my life around. It's something which regularly puts you outside the mainstream—makes you different, unsettled, a bit odd. I've read a fair amount on the subject, including the works of any number of mystics, contemplatives, and those singular individuals who go to the woods and live by their own terms because they wish to know truth and find meaning. I think this "dichotomy of loving the worldly pleasures" and feeling the "virtuous pull of asceticism" is what so troubled Thomas Merton. Or as you say, "community versus solitude."

Anyway, I expect for all of us, the task is to find that line, that "precarious balance" which will enable us to enjoy both worlds, rather than not be comfortable in either.

Grizz………… said...

Scott…

More than one who's visited here has found the silence unnerving. And it is by no means the true silence of the country and certainly not of genuine wilderness, seeing as how we're between the real city and a smaller bedroom-community "city"—both across the river and left or right a mile, respectively. We just happen to be in a sort of forgotten township pocket, on a dead-end road, out-of-sight and out-of-mind of the powers that be, surround with floodplain, riparian woodlands, and various parks and green spaces. Kinda like living in the middle of Central Park, but without the horse-drawn carriages. (No, I take that back…it's way better than Central Park and it's surrounding megalopolis!)

You're right, by the way, I probably understated the noise from the nearby freeway. Seeing how the bridge is at the bottom of steep, fairly long hills on both sides, with an exit ramp just beyond for westbound traffic, you often have 18-wheelers braking about the time they reach the bridge—and they do make a lot of noise. But…and here's the real difference…that big riffle I always talk about is quiet noisy, and it is almost directly in front of the cottage—the lower end of the 70 foot rocky drop ending just at the right (upstream) corner of the cottage. Most of the time, the riffle's dull roar acts as a white-noise blanket, muffling the sound of the freeway bridge traffic. That's way it doesn't make nearly the impression.

We have about an acre here, a long lot with several hundred feet of river frontage. The cottage, which sits at a right angle to the stream (rear toward the road, front great-room at the riverside end) fairly bisects the property in half. Most of our activities take place on the downstream, left, side. That's where the walkway and "front" door are located; the side deck and entrance to the deck which runs across the front of the house; all the bird feeders; the steps leading down to the water; and because it's more sunny than the other, upstream, side, most of my flower beds and plantings. So the white-noise riffle, the stone house, and all those leafy trees are between us and the freeway, and really block out most of the sound. Now, when I'm on the other, upstream, side of the cottage, toward the end of the lot and beyond the riffle, the freeway is louder. And this difference is really apparent come winter when the leaves are down.

AfromTO said...

how cute is he?isn't he supposed to be asleep? do I see green vegetation on the ground?I am just filling up your silence with questions.

Grizz………… said...

AfromTO…

Nope, none of the tree squirrels—gray, fox, red (pine)—hibernate. They may snooze late if the weather's bad, but they're generally up with the dawn, ready to eat and frolic. That vine is an evergreen.

AfromTO said...

how you feeling?

Grizz………… said...

AfromTO…

I'm okay, better than I was. Just been busy and stuck inside…though the weather the last few days hasn't been conducive to doing much outdoors.

Not to worry, however…