If you peel away the humans and sit with the moment — no small task these days — what do you hear?
A few days ago I was finally able to sit down after a long travel day to this little Elizabeth Island on Buzzard’s Bay; a bouncy boat crossing, a week’s worth of food unpacked, tubs stored, windows flung open, clothes put away, dinner defrosting and out of habit I had brought the clutter of the mainland to the porch with me. Perched on the edge of a rocker, my phone face-up, my book spine-down, my aching leg lifted up wrapped in an ice pack I was tired and still spinning. Busy planning on the vacation with no plans. Checking my email.
And then the first bird broke through all my noise, a sleek Loon skimming the water below without a ripple. I tuned into the luminous notes of her song. In a heartbeat I was reset.
If you stop and listen, on Cuttyhunk you are surrounded by island silence that is actually a cacophony of sound. Pausing myself, I saw that the bushes actually thrummed with birds. The water move hypnotically against the shore. Seagulls cruised overhead while a little further away a hawk telescoped above a tiny inlet off the harbor. The Loon’s call continued to echo across the water and I eased back into the chair.
I cannot recreate this gift from nature with lists and planning and things: I can make a conscious effort to be present for what the earth has made and is offering all of us.
To listen is respect. To listen is to acknowledge. To listen is to save myself and the miracles of a tiny bird with an incomparable call to the universe.
Yes, I am reacting — aren’t we all, we should be — to the current administration stripping the earth, the woods, the waters, the air. To listen is to appreciate but also to empower ourselves. To remember we are the stewards not the takers.
Let’s create some noise to keep the sound of silence.
You know what to do. Or ask me.
Alexandra Dane 