Things are quieting down about this time of year. Not as much birdsong in the morning. Fewer buzzing insects fleeting about. Some are still hustling and bustling though, squirrels amassing their hoards, etc. I feel more akin to them at the moment. Lots to do at a quickened pace. Still, I try to take a moment here and there to note how the vibrant greens of the garden are fading and withering to browns. A moment to step outside and feel the tingly burn of frosty night air in my lungs.
I love this time of year. The moment when one final vibrant burst of spectacle awaits before the drowsy winter. Thomas Hood, an English poet, once wrote: "I saw old Autumn in the misty morn stand shadowless like silence listening to silence." There's something very romantic about that line. The dreamy and contemplative personification of silence.
This concept has become more alluring to me as I've aged. It reveals itself in not so subtle ways. Over the years, my sensitivity to sound has noticeably increased. Around this house, I'm the seemingly ancient one asking if you could "just turn that down a bit" or releasing frustrated sighs about the bassy pulses resounding from passing cars. And if the neighbors start mowing and weed wacking before 7 a.m well,... you know. My husband loves to poke fun about it and about the way I covet those huge Bose noise reduction headphones. He recently said he wanted to surprise me with them, but hesitated- imagining me wearing the silly things around all the time. He's probably right. I would.
Of course, there's not much, if any, silence or even quiet to be had nowadays. But, I sure love whatever approximation I can get. Now, I'm not in any way saying I've become
Nadine of Twin Peaks silent drapes fame, but I do find myself looking especially forward to the late evening hours when the house is quiet, the kids are sleeping, and we can have a little breather after being on duty all day. That's often when some reading is possible or canning of late (a new hobby).
There are a lot of pleasant quiet sounds that accompany this activity- the fizzy hiss of bubbling sugar, the squish of pulpy macerated fruit, and the rolling hum of boiling water. (Of course, the smell of fruits and spices wafting in the steamy air doesn't hurt either.) For me, this is also a process that's been mostly predictable so far. It frees the mind a bit. The kind of thing that keeps one busily in the moment instead of mulling all the worldly realities that can too often gnaw and irritate at quiet times.
An evening of jam making might go something like this. The peeled and cut fruit, water, spices, and sugar go into the pot. (Click
here for the recipe I used for this apple rhubarb jam.)
sugar, water, apples, cinnamon, and rhubarb bubbling away
mashing up the bigger bits of apple
sterilizing the jars- lots of steam
filling
processing
finished- apple rhubarb jam
a little left over for sampling
Now, as I said, usually, this is all very relaxing. Only this week, I've had some unexpected company disturbing my solitude. Namely, a rather sizeable and vocal cricket who made his way in the back door and traveled to his prefered location- under the nearby kitchen radiator. Just within sight, but out of reach.
At first his chirping from just a few feet away startled me (not a good thing when handling hot liquids and such), but I figured I'd be able to escort him out easily. No such luck. By the second night, I suspected he might still be around, so I anticipated his chirp. I wasn't disappointed. Sure enough, he was still under there and he began his song again. An insect metronome. The synchronized pacing of my movements began unconsciously, then became a conscious lockstep. Every move in intervals of three. Chirp chirp chirp. Chirp chirp chirp..
During the following afternoon, I wondered if he'd made his way back outside yet. (His daytime silence was deceptive.) And I was hoping for us both. But, again, no luck. A mild but still tolerant annoyance surfaced. Why was he still hanging out under there? Didn't he want to get back to nature? Back to the steel washbasin of flowers beside the back door? C'mon, I'd seen him there a hundred times this summer- relaxing in the shade of Rudbeckia leaves. That had to be better than lurking under some century old metal radiator, right?
Of course, I'm sure he really would have preferred to get back outside (not much food to be had under the radiator to my knowledge), but I still could not coax him out. He just stared back at me, quite content with his residence. And I will never know why he wasn't suddenly silenced or quietly terrified of me...a figure a million times his size..working with scaulding hot liquids, poking her face under a radiator- wide-eyed- scanning. But, ironically, I didn't appear to intimidate him in the least. I had to admire him for the bravado.
Night four? Well, I skipped the whole late night sanctuary in the kitchen thing and sat down with a book in the living room. In all honesty, he drove me out of there, and even from the living room couch I could hear his singsong chirp-chirp-chirp (pause) chirp-chirp-chirp, a monotonous chorus that sounded well, just too loud to be on the inside of one's house. Finally, I turned on the TV for the competing sound, tossed the book, and called it a night.
I suppose I've always been sensitive to sound. Probably overly so. Growing up around a lot of loud music and crowds probably initiated it. Working in one noisy building after another for over a decade, and parenting two sometimes loud little people has probably made it worse. But, regardless of the reason, I've long harbored an admiration of others' quests for peace and quiet- especially if they actually end up finding it. That's what drew me to two books recently.
The first of these I picked up in Maine. Its beautiful watercolor illustrations caught my eye, as did the text- intimately journalesque and recorded in lilting calligraphy. It's titled
True Nature- An Illustrated Journal of Four Seasons in Solitude. I had glanced quickly at the jacket, figured it was easily worth its very inexpensive price, and grabbed it. Besides, it didn't look like much of a reading commitment and sometimes we all need to pick up one like that, right?
Upon sitting down with it weeks later at home, I realized it depicted an experiment conducted across four seasons in the nearby Catskills. It was also pleasantly surprising to discover that the author, Barbara Bash, is a Hudson Valley resident. (Another somewhat serendipitous Hudson Valley connection. Had several of these lately.)
Bash, like so many of us, feels pulled and fragmented by the many currents of life. She's a writer, a mother, a wife, a student,... well, you get the idea. The book recounts how once each season, she breaks away from it all and ventures up to a solitary cabin in the Catskills to face the difficult challenge of truly seeing and accepting herself. At times, the book is raw, even painful. Few authors expose their self-doubt so openly. Incredible courage is required.
At one very memorable point, she finally faces her common and innate fear of forest darkness by venturing to the edge of the nearby woods. Sitting there, perched atop a large rock, she watches the sun set and struggles to resist an intense desire to run back to the cottage- to "safety". She fears being attacked by large animals and/or savage humans in that forest. And though she realizes these fears are somewhat irrational, they are undeniably visceral. Ultimately, she stays in the forest for a while- in the dark late-night coolness... overcoming the fear, owning it, just listening and looking. And she walks out feeling a sense of accomplishment. The sweet relief of an ill fate avoided and an obstacle overcome.
During moments like this, she describes a heightened sensitivity, an acute awareness that is often foreign to our everyday lives. It's a hyperfocus of sorts. She sees and hears what would be overlooked in a "busier", more distracted moment. And there's something amazing about the realizations made in such solitude. Just no hiding in those moments. Bash grapples openly with these unnerving times. The times when we come face-to-face with ourselves and our shortcomings. The physicalities and frailties of the moment are palpable. The sights and scents...the thoughts, the sounds or "silence". And I guess that's sort of what lead me to the second book.
Came across this one back in the valley. The title made me smirk, and I knew my husband would laugh when I came home with it. It's called
Zero Decibels: The Quest for Absolute Silence . Confirming my prediction, my husband later remarked, "Oh, you're going to love that one." And he was right. I did enjoy it. But, not because it offered clear answers or a direct resolution. In fact, on the contrary, it left me with many new questions to explore about science, people, history, and that tricky thing we call "progress". Still, it offered the welcome affirmation of just how ordinary I really am. I'm but one of many who have sometimes struggled to think and coexist amid bodies of sound. In fact, the historical record of sound sensitivity and exploration is fascinating.
Foy, jolted into action by the auditory assault of three conververging and screeching NYC subway trains, begins a quest to find a space where zero decibels ("the lowest sound audible to average to healthy humans...below which is 'silence'") can be registered. He buys a Kawa (
decibel meter- amazing how many makes and models of these are available for purchase) and begins measuring sound in his everyday environments. This produces some surprising findings that lead him to branch out- measuring sound at a NASA shuttle launch, aboard a Trans-Atlantic flight, in a Parisian apartment (he's a professor and translator), at Lowell, Mass.'s Boott Cotton Mill Museum (a semi-active relic of the Industrial Revolution), in his Grandma's empty Cape Cod home, in Central Park, inside the specially built "silent bedroom" of media legend Joseph Pulitzer, in the woods in the Berkshires, at Harvard (where an anechoic chamber was once built, but no longer exists), at Ontario's
SNOLAB (1.4 miles underground), and in Minneapolis' Orfield Laboratory which has a strangely disturbing anechoic chamber that is
Guinness Book of World Records "quietest place on Earth". I even left some out.
Lest this sound monotonous, it's important to note that Foy balances his account of these journeys and measurements with a brilliant consideration of the use of silence in literature...and even music (as pauses). This discussion considers everything from Shakespeare's monologues and Greek mythology to the compositions of George Brecht and John Lennon. The historical accounts of how sound nearly maddened Thomas Carlyle and John Leech (a Dickens illustrator), Joseph Pulitzer, Anthony Trollope, and Charles Babbage didn't hurt either. Nor did the analysis of sound's ever increasing environmental and physical effects. Or the consideration of silencing in politics and war (sonic weapons).
Though this book was criticized by some for its resolution, I think that's a little harsh. Unfair even. Foy's quest IS satisfying because it's an evolution of thought, not a scientific formula or a literal statement of finite destination. There's just so much to think about in this book; it's far from a disappointing read. It's the kind of book one can go back to time and again for a thoughtful passage to digest. A book inviting many dog-eared pages.
So, where does all the intense exploration of Bash and Foy leave me and that fearless cricket? Well, I think it's left me realizing that maybe looking or yearning for some mythic pristine silence or solitude is not all it's cracked up to be. As Foy says, "I want to love
this relative peace...and I do; the quiet soundscape of wind...and small denizens of this land..." Yes. Yes.
There's a lot to appreciate about sounds...even the everyday ones- like squabbling children and lawnmowers, TV's, radios, passing motorists, and yes, even a denizen like a chirping cricket under the radiator in one's kitchen. These are all precise signs of life, of company in this great big cosmos. And as things begin to slow and quiet down outdoors, with winter just around the corner, maybe it's the perfect moment to savor the sounds of tiny fearless summer creatures. Maybe they have just as much to offer as the nostalgic din of little feet running about, young voices play acting, arguing, and giggling, sugar bubbling, water boiling, or the crunch of newfallen leaves underfoot. Listening to that early autumn cricket song is strangely parallel to canning the last of summer's bounty. Symbolic of the fleeting nature of time and our attempts to capture it, remember it as it was. The way it was lived, experienced, tasted, and ...yes, heard.
And when my cricket company was ready for his ticket out (a day or so later), he appeared right under my chair and released a loud and proud proclamation, his barbaric yawp. Chirp-chirp-chirp! Paper transport was quickly offered, and he came aboard straight away. Maybe he felt his job was done here.
So, I deposited him back at home base, beside the steel wash basin and in the crisp air of autumn evening. And ya know, when I went back inside, I smiled knowing I could still hear him out there...or at least some of his friends, just as I do right now.
