I wrote a list of sounds several years ago, mindful of how little awareness I had of surrounding sounds. As I wrote, I kept thinking of more—until I didn’t know if sounds were reminding me of stories, or if stories were the source of my sounds.
Pounding
I’m tall enough to stand at my dad’s workbench in the cellar. He’s given me a hammer and a nail, and I’m pounding it into a piece of wood. A black line on the wall is the shape of the hammer. I’m too short to put it back so when I’m done I hand the hammer to my dad. Purple and white crocus bloom outside the windows that are high up, narrow, and spotted from dirt splashing against them.
Clanking
The snowplow’s chains are clanking up Prospect Street. I stop shoveling the two-foot-deep snow in our driveway to watch. The plow is big and impressive, with the driver seated up high guiding the plow along this side. It leaves a high mound of crusted snow in sharp angles mixed in with the soft snow at the end of the driveway. It will be heavier for me to lift. I’m still shoveling when the plow returns, announced by its distant clanking coming closer. I stop again. Thinking back to this time today, I remain impressed, but now by the patient driver.
Whirring
The whirring wings of a hummingbird announce its arrival at my younger daughter’s feeder even if I’m not looking out the kitchen window. One morning (and this never happened again) as I checked around the kitchen to see if any more dishes needed to be washed, I noticed a pot left on the back of the stove. Checking its contents, it appeared that water had been heated, some used, and this was left to be emptied and the pot washed—both of which I did…. It was the fresh nectar that I threw out.
Brushing
I’ve taken my older daughter’s German shepherd to the edge of the woods for brushing. Her cold weather undercoat has begun to float across the floor. I no longer can walk the family dog for miles as I used to with earlier shepherds, so this is how I get close. Tying her to a tree so I can have both hands free, I stroke an area, then brush—the bristles play a muted song. Hair drifts away—winged seeds landing on the faded leaves as green leaves above silently make a full canopy even fuller.
Buzzing
V. has beehives again this year. Do I want to see them? Yes. So I stand back from the buzzing in the hives, curious and amazed.
Splashing, Smacking, Bubbling
Down the beach, a group of young men run at the waves, leaping over, diving under, shaking water from their hair as they break free, laughing as they smack their hands in salty splashing aimed away toward friends. Where I sit, I imagine their sounds, while I listen to bubbling, ocean dribbles reach the end and turn.
Laughing
A reality show is on television. Watching with my older daughter’s family, we are all laughing so hard that now we only have to look at one another to keep laughing . . . laughing. Finally, we are not laughing. Instead I am holding my breath. I want to stop laughing. When I laugh too long I get hiccups; they hurt. I want the show not to be funny for two minutes.
Chanting
It is 5:00 A.M. in Nepal. I am in the Shechen Monastery near the Boudhnath stupa* that I walk around each day. I am sitting at a short distance from the young monks wearing robes, seated in two rows and chanting. I am deeply moved. My gaze briefly wanders to the intricate designs, the enormous Buddha in front, but mostly my eyes stay closed as tones prompt my serenity.
My realization is, “Sounds may prompt stories that return our past to us.”
* A dome-shaped building erected as a Buddhist shrine.