The quiet mornings after the recent snowfall had me marveling at the seemingly absolute silence outside. Friends discovered and shared articles about the physics of snow absorbing sound, and we agreed it all made sense. But I couldn’t get over exactly how quiet it was, the only sounds a neighbor making their way through snowy sidewalks or streets, trying to get their dog a little exercise before the work day began or before it got too dark at night.
This contrasts with the cacophony of crunching just two short weeks ago as I picked my way through leaf-littered sidewalks and trails. Autumn is a different kind of quiet season as birds seem to sleep in as late as I do (finally!) and leaves skip across concrete sidewalks. But every moment outside in the fall is an opportunity to step on death and hear a satisfying crunch under my feet.
It is increasingly difficult to find these moments of near-silence, of only small nature sounds and our own pumping, thudding blood in our ears. This past week at school I noticed that students no longer pack their backpacks those last 30 seconds before leaving class. Instead of shuffling papers and the sounds of zippers opening and closing, I watched as they quietly put in their ear pods, chose a song from their phone and stepped out into the hallway listening to their own private soundtrack on their way to another class.
When my parents bought me a portable tape player in the 1980s, I too had a difficult time taking the music out of my ears. Later, I left the television or radio on for “company” throughout my days and evenings. Now I listen to meditation recordings or television shows at night before falling asleep. When I’m not listening to a produced program, I listen to the white noise of the air purifier guarding me against a ceaseless death ray of cat hairs. I had a hard time falling asleep last week until I realized the air purifier was off and I had been uncomfortably alone with my own thoughts from the day.
It’s this ongoing feeling of being uncomfortable that has me reaching for the invisible companion of sound. Noise keeps my brain distracted enough so that I can get through the day without thinking about everything I’ve done wrong in the past hour, or the past 50 or so years. And yet when there is too much noise, I sense myself feeling desperate and depressed. Hearing the song “Tequila” on a speaker at the grocery store makes me feel frenetic, while hearing “Smells Like Teen Spirit” at the same store on a different day makes me feel like a middle-aged sellout. What would it be like to go to a store without hearing canned music? What if I just had my list and my own thoughts and a wonky-wheeled squeaking grocery cart? How long would I be able to tolerate the store, or myself, or both?
There’s a lot of other noise this time of year as well that comes with the territory of self-reflection. As I wandered through a store the other day, I kept imagining gifts that I would buy for everyone in my acquaintance. The list grew so long: a beautiful journal for a graduate student I know, a hat and pair of gloves for a student from Hawaii who only owns a sweatshirt for the winter, food gifts for the 60 people I work with regularly, another pair of socks for my husband. I began to fill the cart with these items and was counting out 20 candy bars when I heard a voice in my head. You are enough, the voice said. Which was me, talking to myself of course, but I never feel like I am enough. When I don’t pay attention to what music is playing over a store’s stereo system, I’m liable to overbuy and feel remorse later. But I also need to be able to hear my own voice talking me down off the ledge of consumerism.
I imagine I’m not alone in this. The call of consumerism is particularly loud and incessant this time of year. Advertisements show cars with large red bows on them (where does one get a bow that large?), diamonds, expensive watches, new clothes and holiday vacations. When I stopped buying home magazines and could skip through commercials on television, it was easier to know that I had everything I needed. Intellectually, I know this now as well, but I imagine that others need the chocolate gifts that I will give them. I managed a compromise that day at the store—socks for some friends. I hope they won’t miss the chocolate bars.
It seems our society can no longer run without noise—perhaps it is because we would all like to be constantly distracted from our own thoughts while simultaneously feeling that there is a nebulous “something” out there that we can buy that will make us feel better. A crow caw-caws outside my window as I write this, which I hear as his agreement with this sentiment. It would be something to be able to shut off my brain to human-created noise and be more in tune with nature, wouldn’t it?
By the way, I have no remedy for any of this noise, especially the dual competition of sound-noise and consumerism-noise. I can only offer my own antidote: I will keep reminding myself that I am enough. Then I’ll button up my jacket and step outside to hear whatever it is that nature wants to tell me.
