Noise, Both Outside and In, Please Leave Me In Silence

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The noise out there is building. You can hear it from land, air, sea, from without and within, from speech, thought, and machine. I walk through the day with my finger to my lips and whisper, “Shhhhhh,” but who is there to hear me?

For starters, it’s warm-weather machine-noise time. This is when lawn care, tree cutting, and leaf blowing happen outside my window, spewing high-level decibels for the purpose of evenly cut grass, well-managed trees, and leaf-free areas. It’s loud. And relentless.

I don’t think this noise has necessarily become any more frequent or louder over the years, but I seem to notice it more. Maybe I’m spending more time at home trying to think out words onto a page. Maybe tolerance for nuisance lessens with age, or frustration with the same-ole grows. Whatever the case, this noise is hard to absorb.

So are the planes that have grown in number since I’ve lived here under a flight path to a major airport. The detail on their bellies is visible as they fly overhead, preparing to land. Their sound is all the rage. My ears wiggle and ask, Could you land somewhere else this time? Alas, a 747 can’t hear talking ears. They certainly can’t over their bellowing roar.

The clang of the US stock market opening bell triggers the eardrum as the country, and world, wait to see what will transpire. There is much at stake but little personal influence at our disposal. Instead, we must submit to the sounds of markets ticking and change unfolding.

But other noises fill my brain with a clamor that prevents the serenity I crave. These come from within. They’re relentless at times, though thankfully, over the years, their sound has shortened in span if not lessened in decibel. I punt these sounds to the curb more readily than I could during my youth or even into my forties. I’ve learned to bounce back faster, thanks to the learning and practicing I’ve done.

These are the self-harassments, the worry, blame, and catastrophizing wingers. They’re the spiraling, shoving, yanking that my inner voices inflict on my inner ears, which sinks my heart.

Today, there is worry over the state of the world. Will we make it out okay? These worries ricochet around my brain. I feel helpless and on the edge of my seat. The sound is not kind to my equilibrium. It pushes me off my chair. I fall, demanding, “What’s that all about?” The loud worry smirks. Scoundrel.

There is raucous insistence, too. This is an agitating voice that picks at my auditory nerves, telling me to do things this way or that — and perfectly so. Don’t mess up, it says. Do it now, it rankles.

I know all these sounds are going to come — the lawn mowers, leaf blowers, muffler-less dude cars, 747s, thunder, sirens. I know the inner sounds will come, too — worry booms, insistence bangs. But so will the other sounds — soft morning bird chatter, breeze-ruffled leaves, the patter of baby footsteps, lyrical hums, and words of kindness.

The world has an abundance of sound, raging or pillowy, and it takes strength and maybe earplugs to choose whether to block some sounds or seek out others.

I don’t want to hear someone I love desperately cry, but it’s better to hear this and hold it with my heart than to buffer myself from it. I don’t want to hear a parent berate their child. This is especially hard to hear. I was in a store months ago when I came upon a mother speaking with a cruel, harsh tone to her three or four-year-old daughter sitting in the cart in front of her. I spied on the girl’s face from my position across the aisle and saw a dejected look — a submission — that I knew was probably settling into her psyche for a good long time, and maybe forever. That was a painful sound to hear.

Wouldn’t it be a sigh of relief if one day that girl — turned a woman — learns to speak kindly enough to herself that she can turn this voice toward someone hurting in a way she understands? She could be a witness to pain and a role model for how to drop it in the gutter and walk away wiser, bigger, stronger. In this way, the legacy of sound goes from awful to beautiful in the span of one life.

Today, it was pouring rain as I set out on a short walk across the street with my big umbrella. The street over there is wide and barely has traffic. I can often walk in the middle of it with private glee, like I have the place to myself.

Running along the curbs on either side of me were two fast-moving streams of rainwater as they flowed downhill toward a municipal drain. The streams flowed faster than I walked, carrying small fallen petals shed from the flowering trees. As I walked downhill, these petals flew past me in the rainwater streams like a rush of small bits moving away. Later, as I walked uphill, the streams rushed toward me as they flowed to the drain. Here, the petals seemed to rush at me.

I could see movement toward and away, just like sound. With sound, you absorb or you generate.

The question is, what to absorb and what to generate? When times are tough, maybe I don’t want to absorb the noise of chaos, but I don’t want to be unprepared either, nor do I want to turn a deaf ear to others’ struggles.

There can be a benefit to generating sound in the form of helpful stories, ideas, solutions, and support. I don’t want to live a life of pressing my hands on my ears and mouth. Noise can initiate change. It can provide options for those stuck. It can be an inspiration for someone at a critical time.

Perhaps it’s all about balance. Absorbing too much inner noise can be injurious to self-esteem and self-compassion. Absorbing too much outer noise is like swimming in a sinkhole. Knowing when to opt for quiet is self-preservation.

And speak well, with wisdom and compassion — more for the listener perhaps, and less for me. Be mindful that what I generate is being absorbed.

On my walk, I had the tunes playing from my phone tucked in my bra, the speaker playing into the bottom of my left jaw. They were good songs with a nice beat, but the rain started to hammer my umbrella, and soon, the combined sound was an ear clatter. I had to choose. Rain or tunes?

The rain chose for me, so I turned off the music and walked home with just the patter of the rain. It was lovely. I could hear it fully. It wasn’t too much. It was a salve for the worries in my head right now. It was just what I needed to hear. So, I listened.

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Have a nice (and quiet?) rest of your week, friends. :-)