BRAIN STRAINER – To Push or Pardon My Porous Memory

At a recent meeting of my men’s group I got this rude awakening about my memory.

We’d gone around the circle and each done our “check-in,” where we briefly report on our ups and downs during the last two weeks. I thought everyone had taken his turn to do so, except Dick. So I prompted him. “How ‘bout you, Dick?” I asked. He responded with a look of surprise and everyone reminded me that he’d been the first to check in. 

How embarrassing. Not only had I forgotten the few updates Dick had shared; I forgot that he’d even shared them. I babbled some kind of excuse, but then he added that I’d done this about something else barely a week before.

           My dad had a term for folks like this:
           He has a mind like a steel trap.

FOLLOW-UP
I like to think of myself as a good listener. I make a real effort to hear what people say. I follow up with a question or two and remember enough of it to perhaps ask about it the next time we get together.

So what’s going on with me and Dick? Or maybe I should say with me and my memory? Do its lapses mean I don't care?

I raised the question at our next men’s group meeting, where I at least got the consolation of hearing that a couple of the other guys share the problem.

That discussion also supported my assertion that my leaky memory is not—as are many of the maladies we share now that we’re all in our seventies—simply a factor of age. I was this way even in my twenties.

(I should note that, of all the people I’ve ever called friends, Dick stands out as the one with the best memory. You can tell him several things you’re doing, how your relatives are and even a couple of happenings you just read about, and the next time you speak with him he asks you about every one of them.)

My dad had a term for folks like this: His mind’s like a steel trap. That’s Dick. So my memory shortcomings seem all the worse by comparison.

                My memory, I now realize, is
                a rather large-holed colander.

I’ve always had trouble with things most people seem to remember, like the plot elements—or even the title—of the movie I just watched last week. Or what my wife’s plans are for the day…oh, and don’t get me going on people’s names.

What does stick with me, it seems, are far more subtle, often sensory, details—like how much Dick's wife loves waterfalls; the way another friend wrings his hands while he talks; or the sense that great pain lurks just beneath one acquaintance's cheery façade.

IMAGE: New York Times

ANOTHER FINE MESH
So, is my brain just wired differently? And if that’s the case, should I just accept it? Maybe rationalize that memory’s a zero-sum game and my brain's simply decided to excel at some other task?

I wonder if there isn't a better metaphor for memory than a steel trap. Maybe a strainer. A very few people—like my friend Dick—have filters, which grab and hold the smallest details. Others have sieves. They miss a few details, but latch
onto most.

My memory, I now realize, is a rather large-holed colander. I remember the important stuff, like “How’s your recovery from that heart attack coming?” “When do you get back from Uzbekistan?” Or “How’s prison life treating you.” I forget the stuff like the skinned knee, the day trip to Zumbrota or a friend of a friend’s divorce.

I suppose I could fight it. I could drive myself to listen to those I love as if there’ll be a pop quiz. I could take notes. (Actually, I’ve been trying this with some success.)

But I’ve also listened to the advice of another men’s group friend, Ken, who told me I’m being too hard on myself. We’re all different. Lighten up.

What do you think? Should I keep twisting my memory’s arm? Is remembering details essential for a real friendship? If so, do you have any tips on how to do so?

Or should I just forgive myself and move on? What would you do?

BEYOND WORDS – A Dialog of the Spirit

I’ve been visiting Harold (not the man's real name) as a hospice volunteer for three months now. His diagnosis is Alzheimer’s disease, and the reason he’s in hospice is that it’s quite advanced.

When I first met him, Harold could talk. That is, he had enough breath to make sounds, and he could move his lips. He’d even punctuate his comments with hand gestures and the occasional little chuckle. But very little of it came across clearly enough for me to understand.

As for my end of the conversation, I’d tell him what kind of a day it was outside, report on how the Minnesota Twins were doing, or maybe recount one of my experiences I thought might resonate with one of his. Occasionally, when he was tracking, he’d respond to something I said quite clearly, “Oh, is that right?” That was nice to hear.

I did my best. Most often that meant simply maintaining eye contact with him as
he spoke, trying to keep that faintly-received channel open. Since I didn’t want to pretend to understand when I didn’t, all I could do was nod so he’d know I was, if not understanding, at least hearing him.

Once in a while I’d make out a word or two. If I heard “brother,” I’d respond, “Oh, your brother. Uh-huh” or “I’ll bet you and your brother were quite a pair.” Anything to preserve a crack in that shell of isolation the poor man must inhabit.

      I remember vividly why I originally signed 
      up for hospice work...I knew it had little to 
      do with words.

A LOSS FOR WORDS
Harold still likes to talk, but now, at this week’s visit, he’s clearly faded…a lot. He’s gazing up at me with what appears to be the intent of speaking, but I have to look hard to detect the subtle movement of his lips. I hear wisps of air coming out of his mouth, but he can no longer make a sound.

I feel so sad for him; his daughter had told me he was once been a pretty gregarious fellow. He still had the will, but not the way. I also feel an arresting sense of gratitude. Yes, of course, simply for not being Harold, but also for the opportunity– the privilege—of being with this good man at such a vulnerable point in his life.

I’m a writer; my stock in trade is communicating with words. So this is unfamiliar territory for me. Yet I remember vividly why I originally signed up for hospice work. I felt I had something spiritual to offer. I wasn’t quite sure how to describe it, but I knew it had little to do with words.

HEARING SILENCE
So I’m sitting here at Harold’s bedside, and he’s just looking up into my eyes. It’s a little unnerving, but I feel something—I’ll call it energy for lack of a better word—flowing between us. It feels good, and I can only hope Harold feels it too.

I take his gnarly hand and hope I can convey some kind of understanding that way. I don’t know how much he can grasp, but I acknowledge how awful it must be to have thoughts ambushed like that before he can get them out. “It’s okay,” I reassure him. “I’m hearing you.”

Our hour together comes to an end. I take his hand again and ask if it’s okay for me to come back next week. He just looks at me. As I walk away, I recall the moment, just the week before, when, after I’d strained the whole time to understand a word here and there, he somehow managed to say, as plain as day, “Thank you for coming.”

Today, he says nothing. But his eyes follow me through the door.

SOUND ACROSS WATER – In Touch with Eternity

             Lovers row aimlessly, never beyond 
            sight of the dock—but lost anyway.

I have this romantic notion in my head about the way sound carries over an expanse of water. The image that keeps coming to mind is that of a small east- central Minnesota lake around the end of the 19th century. It could be any lake or placid river, though—perhaps one you remember fondly.

I am at my dream lake. I see families who've come out here from Minneapolis or St. Paul by horse and wagon to spend the long summer afternoon swimming, boating and reveling in the crystal clear waters. Laughter shimmers across the water in gentle, agreeable waves, eventually washing up on every shore.

As evening draws in around the lake, lovers row aimlessly, never beyond sight of the dock—but lost anyway. By nightfall, most have gone home, but a few campfires wink from surrounding woods. The snap…snap of the burning wood sounds like it’s yards away, not half a mile. You can practically hear a whisper across the lake.

SOUND AND SPACE
You’ve been here before, haven't you? In your childhood, or maybe just in your imagination? What is it about a scene like this that so captures our hearts?

Is it the purity, the utter care-free simplicity of a more innocent time? I guess that goes without saying for us slow-it-down, soak-it-in romantics. But there's more to it than that, something about how the mood gets carried in those sounds.

I know there are scientific reasons for how sound waves carry across water—something about the water surface and the cooler air just above it combining to contain and channel them. But that doesn't interest me as much as the symbolic meaning.

     These sounds—if we let them—draw us in.
     Whether we like what we hear or not, they
     connect us, define us, define our community.

For me, sound is spatial. I think of the way great, spreading American elm trees define the space under and around their huge, fountain-shaped canopy—and how they used to form cathedral-like arches over St. Paul’s residential streets. Like those magnificent arbors, sound encompasses everything it can reach.

If you're a city dweller, it might be the muddled shouts and laughter stirring the thick summer evening air from the baseball diamond a block or two away.  If your neighborhood's a little rougher, maybe it’s the sounds of more boisterous goings-on.

Whatever the source, these sounds—if we let them—draw us in. Whether we like what we hear or not, they connect us, define us, define our community.

LONGING TO BELONG
Imagining once more that idyllic summer evening at the lake, that timeless sense of community is somehow intensified. With no competing noise, the clarity and reach of that laughter, those campfire conversations and lovers' whispers, seems funneled through our ears and right to our souls. It wraps around us. And the fact of its having to reach across such a chilling, empty space makes the connection feel all the more intimate.

I'm sure that's part of it for me—a longing for community. Don't you feel, sometimes, that we're losing that sense of sharing beloved places or spaces, of wanting to protect them, of knowing, deep inside, that we belong to them and to one another? Do you share my disappointment that, more and more these days, everyone seems concerned with nothing more than the time- and-space immediacy of their own consumption? 

Alas. But why curse the silence when we can make music? Listening for those vital signs and sounds of community doesn't mean we have to live other people's lives nor fix all the world's problems, because, while a quiet lake at night may serve as the instrument, the notes originate in the soul. All we have to do is pay attention, listen with our hopes and our hearts, and care what we hear.

 

THE QUEST FOR UNCERTAINTY – Why Wondering Is More Powerful than Being Right

Don’t get me wrong; I truly envy some people for their clarity of thought. I often wish I were more decisive, that I could be sure enough about a decision or an issue, right away, to be willing to go to bat for or against it.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought of my reticence as a handicap. But in the past decade or so, at last, I’ve found a way to free myself of that burden; I’ve decided it’s actually one of my greatest strengths.

          Isn’t the brew of consequence richer, 
          more robust, when one lets facts and 
          feelings percolate for a while?

After all, I’m thinking, isn’t the world a more interesting place when the conversation doesn’t necessarily end at one person’s version of the truth? Isn’t the brew of consequence richer, more robust, when one lets facts and feelings percolate for a while? Isn’t genuine understanding better served when for every ideologue there’s a skeptic; for every answer, a question; for every teacher, a student?

I guess I can’t stop being the student. And I'm pretty sure that’s okay.

          The more I learn, the more certain I am 
          that I don’t know everything.

Learning’s a funny thing. For many people, it seems it’s just the means to an end. You learn so you can know; you know so you don’t have to listen to anyone any more. Not me. The more I learn, the more certain I am that I don’t know everything…and the harder I listen. For me, asking questions, keeping open the door to curiosity and wonder, is more powerful than being right.

Of course, I understand that much of modern life revolves around having answers. Sometimes one must act on those answers—the best ones possible given constraints of time and resources. But I keep thinking how much of the human experience, spanning nearly every culture, hinges not so much on whether or not those answers are the right ones, as on some clever person’s ability to make you think they are. There must be a better way.

       Isn’t there a kind of abundance in knowing 
       that all the possible conclusions are still 
       out there for you?

Giving myself permission to be ambivalent has been liberating. Ironically, it seems to have actually emboldened my thinking in a way. Not that I make decisions any more easily; but I’m coming more and more to not just tolerate, but actually celebrate the knowledge that absolutely nothing—including this statement—is absolute. It all depends on how I look at it—the lens of my experience; the filter of my judgement; the lightings and shadings of my emotions.

Besides that sense of liberation, isn’t there a kind of abundance in being slow to judge, in knowing that all the possible conclusions are still out there for you? Come on, isn't there at least a small part of you that pities those who so quickly limit their prospects to just one outcome, one reality?

                                         ~         ~         ~

I’m interested in your take on this. How certain are you, at your core, of decisions you make? Does having to know something for sure ever feel like a constraint on your intelligence and creativity? Do you catch yourself turning off your curiosity in order to protect your certainty?

Moral certainty is always a sign of cultural inferiority. The more uncivilized the man, the surer he is that he knows precisely what is right and wrong.  ~  H.L. MENCKEN

WHEN NATURE SPEAKS – Echoes of Eternity

When Nature speaks, it’s for a reason. She's sharing things we need to hear—invitations, affirmations, lessons about truth, beauty, love and life.

While the human animal’s obsessed with how to stretch and bend her to create our own realities, Nature reminds us of one eternal reality, that everything is connected. Everything. That what we might fear in her we actually fear in ourselves. And that what we do to her we do to ourselves and others. 

What a joy our place in her should be, a position that, miraculously, both humbles us when we’re arrogant and ennobles us when we’re feeling unimportant.

BODY AND SOUL
Nature’s voice surrounds us, fills us, every day. She speaks to our minds, showing us immutable truths of how things always grow and move and interact. At the same time, she refreshes those ancient instincts that have always advised us on how to apply those truths. She tries as she can to show us both the portals and the boundaries of our intimacy.

            Only if we love her back will we 
            care enough to protect her as if 
            she were our own flesh and blood.

Sometimes the message is for our bodies, calling us to work with her, run with her, bask in her. She fills us with contentment, with exhilaration, and then reminds us that, while she may seem indefatigable, we are not.

Finally, she speaks to our hearts and our spirits, reminding us of our deep belonging to her. It is an unconditional love, that of the tenderest of gods, yet utterly indifferent to the values we humans have devised for ourselves—and so often fail to exemplify. 
 
WHAT TO SAY BACK
Don’t think for a moment that what Nature has to say to us has to be a monologue. In fact, there are many ways to hold up our end of the conversation. Perhaps the most obvious is through sound.

If we spot a beautiful bird—a cardinal, let’s say—we obviously can’t look like a cardinal; we can’t feel or taste or smell like one either. But we can sound like one. I do it all the time (and the cardinal nearly always comes closer).

When Nature calls us to our child side, we might answer her with playful cries and joyous laughter. Or we can welcome her accompaniment as we shuffle leaves, crunch acorns or splash water.

We can shout or clap our hands and listen as desert ignores, forest ponders or canyon mimics. Or we can offer Nature the one gift we have that might nearly rival birdsong and wolf call—our own voices in song.

                You know it's not really a 
                sound, but still you hear it.

THE SOUNDS OF SILENCE   
Can we converse with Nature through silence? Have you ever experienced true, total silence? I’ve done so only a few times in my life. It leaves an impression. At first your brain doesn’t quite know what to do without the foundation of at least some ambient sound.

It’s kind of like being in total darkness. It makes you dizzy. You can almost feel your ears reaching out, expanding, cupping to detect something, anything, to get a bearing on.

Then, like the way we try to fill the awkward lull in a conversation with an “um-m-m” or an “ah-h-h-h,” Nature comes up with her own space filler, a sort of dull roar. You know it's not really a sound, but still you hear it.

How curious that, while total silence may disorient, near-silence—especially that infused with Nature’s whispers of wind through trees, water over rocks, the jabber and scurry of life—is where, more than any place, you will hear the sound of your own spirit, that reassuring voice that reminds you of your unique part in the oneness of everything.

MISPLACED FEARS
This is an era in which too many of us humans seem to be getting it backwards in our attitude toward Nature. We've come to fear her more than we love her. We keep our young ones indoors where we can keep an eye on them. We discourage them from the kinds of adventures that defined our own childhood, but which we now somehow believe are too risky.

        In her voice are the echoes of everything 
        that ever lived...or ever will live.

If we truly listen, we know that the truth is a different matter. In fact it is Nature that should fear us. Once again, she’s telling us—and we should be listening—how we hurt her through our arrogance, our greed, our short-sightedness and, perhaps most tragically, through those poorly-informed fears.

Nature is as benevolent as she has ever been. And, in this era of virtual experiences and connections, her presence in our daily lives is needed more than ever. Depriving our children of her nurture, her teachings, her healing spirit, is hurting them—and us—in ways we are only now coming to document, and to a degree that far, far outweighs any actual risks.

FLESH AND BLOOD
So keep your ears peeled for Nature’s voice. It’s there, not just in the forest, but in the heart of the city. You can hear it in creatures’ voices, including our own. It comes from growth and movement—the raspy rattle of tree branches rubbing shoulders in the wind; water’s cheery chortle as it charms its way over and around hard rock. Some folks even hear the trees, the clouds, the land.

And only if we listen—truly listen with ears, hearts and souls open—will we learn about Nature and our belonging in her. For in her voice are the echoes of everything that ever lived...or ever will live. Then, only when we know and trust that eternal bond, will we be able to reciprocate her love. Only then will we know enough to protect her as if she were, indeed, our own flesh and blood.

WHY I WONDER – In Two Places At the Same Time

         

A PATH WITH NO END
Wonder's like the two ends of a path—or maybe I should say like the point where you start out and another point somewhere along the way where you think you might end up. Let me explain:

Any time you go somewhere, meet someone, experience something or process an idea it's like setting out on a journey. Sometimes you know where you're going; sometimes you think you know but end up taking an alternate route; and sometimes—often this turns out to be the most fun—you just set out on the path and have no idea where it will lead.

This is the other end of wonder, the place where your conversation with your surroundings turns from asking to listening.

In any case, when you take off on this wonder journey, something in you is thinking, I wonder. At this point it's all about curiosity, intrigue, adventure. If you're in Nature, the conversation between you and your surroundings here involves mostly asking: What is that thing? How did it get here? How does it feel or smell? What's under it? Why did it just move? How does it experience me?

Maybe we could just call this end of the path wondering.

OWNING WONDER
Okay? Now let's jump to the other end of the path. The first thing you need to understand about this place is that it doesn't exist, at least not in a linear-thinking, rational way. It's like heading for a point on the horizon; by the time you get there, you're headed for a new point on a new horizon.

So you have to decide for yourself when you've arrived. Most often the only way you know is when you experience something profound, a sense of being that seems to originate outside of yourself. This is the other end of wonder, the place where your conversation with your surroundings turns from asking to listening.

The wonder you've just experienced is no longer 
a place on the path, but a place in your soul.

It's at this point that what might seem, semantically at least, a subtle distinction becomes quite pronounced. You've moved from wondering to experiencing wonder.

This is where you realize the spiritual meaning of wonder. And it's where you make a critical, albeit tacit, decision: what will I do with these feelings? It's here that most people seem to feel their transaction with Nature is complete. They've come; they've seen; they've experienced something that made them feel small.

But don't let your path of wonder end there; pick up these experiences and take them with you. In other words, the wonder you've just experienced is no longer a place on the path, but a place in your soul. For in fact, that's where it's been all along.

(Watch for the next post in the Why I Wonder series: Believing Is Seeing)

AND YOU? – The Two Most Important Words in Conversation

Years ago, my wife opened my eyes to a fascinating social phenomenon. We’ve come to refer to it as the “And you? factor.” It’s something that happens whenever people get together, whether they’re relating experiences, catching up on news or just engaging in small talk. It’s our measure of one person’s ability to show an interest in another, and to share, rather than monopolize, a conversation.

Like so many observations, once you witness the And you? factor for the first time, you become sensitized to it, and from that moment on you can’t miss it. In fact, as my wife and I sometimes do, you might wish you’d never noticed it in the first place. Let’s just say it will change the way you look at people and conversation.

Did so-and-so ask you anything about you? 

When we leave a meeting, a party or even some family events, one of us usually will ask the other, “Did so-and-so ask you anything about you?” At least 90 percent of the time the answer is no, so-and-so talked only about herself. “What’s more,” the account continues, “if I did manage to interject a word or two of my experiences or ideas, she simply snatched the conversation back to her own agenda.”

MANNERS OF SPEAKING
Here’s a typical example. On a recent trip to Mexico, I spent two weeks at a Spanish language school with a group of people from all over the U.S. Most of us didn’t spend time together during the day, but one night we all went out for dinner together. I sat next to a 40-something man (I’ll call him Bill) and enjoyed a warm, spirited conversation along with the fine dinner.

Turns out Bill’s a pretty interesting guy. But on the ride home from the restaurant I asked myself (since my wife wasn’t there) about that conversation, and whether Bill had scored any “And you?s” Sure enough, I could tell you all about Bill’s family, his work, his home, his hobbies and where he’d traveled. For God’s sake, I even knew what his wife’s work and hobbies were!

If he knew more than my first name, it would 
have to have been through some kind of ESP. 

So, after our couple of hours together, what did Bill know of me and my life? If it was more than my first name, it would have to have been through some kind of ESP.

Like Bill, many of these people are bright, well educated and from families in which one would presume they’d learned all the basic social graces. It utterly baffles me how this one courtesy—this simplest device of stopping one’s own monologue once in a while to ask “And you?...”, listen for a while and then perhaps ask a question or two—could have escaped about two-thirds of the people I’ve ever met.

HIDDEN GEMS
What all of this leads me to is that people, like most things in Nature, hold many wonders to be discovered with a minimal investment of attention, curiosity and patience. Here, too, there are layers to be looked under, details to be appreciated, dim recesses to be illuminated. And, now and then, you might find some delightful surprises.

People—even those who go on and on about their accomplishments, social connections, travels and pet peeves—rarely reveal much of substance about themselves. At least not voluntarily. While I can’t pretend to be very good at drawing people out, my wife surely is. What I’m able to do with discovery in the natural world, she does with people.

If you aren’t curious about the person you’re talking with, you’re not giving them the chance 
to surprise or delight you. 

She observes keenly, looks for an opening and then, skillfully (almost always tactfully), tries to peel back the loose layers of a person’s modesty or embarrassment, and often finds a core of real interest or passion. Part of her success stems from her ability to see herself in the other person’s shoes: “If I were she, what would I enjoy talking about?” My wife, generous person that she is, knows how to let other people shine their light.

I’m taking lessons from the master, though I must admit I still enjoy talking about myself a bit too much. And, to be perfectly honest, sometimes I’m just not interested in the other person. But I’ve found that, when I do make the effort to draw someone out, it’s nearly always rewarding for both of us.

They get to share their essence with me and, more often than not, their passion will kindle mine. The point is—just as with discoveries about places and things—if you aren’t curious about the person you’re talking with, you’re not giving them the chance to surprise or delight you.

GIVE AND TAKE
Now, I suppose one could say that my wife’s and my failure to get in a word edgewise in these “conversations” is just that, our failure. After all, when we opt to ask more than tell, aren’t we choosing not to share our story when we have the chance? The key word here is “chance.”

Wouldn’t anyone rather share something they care about because they were asked? Is having to interrupt the other person's lecture really the way you want to express yourself? Are my wife and I the only ones to have been raised with the understanding that boasting—not to mention monopolizing a conversation—is rude?

Might people actually think of their self-absorbed monologues as acts of generosity, as giving something of themselves?

Perhaps part of the problem lies in perceptions. Could it be that people actually think of their self-absorbed monologues as acts of generosity, as giving something of themselves? Maybe. But I beg to differ. I see it as taking, for in any conversation there are just three resources in play: time, attention and energy.

When you ask someone about their world, their life, you’re giving them your share of those assets. When you talk just about yourself, you take theirs. At the end of the day, it takes neither an expert on manners nor a psychologist to know that conversation works best when there’s give and take.

                                                  <->     <->     <->

Might the And you? factor be yet one more symptom of the plague of narcissism, competitiveness and loss of civility our culture has so clearly suffered over the past few decades? It’s worth pondering. If so, it worries and saddens me. I think we can do better. What do you think?

But enough about me. Let’s talk about you; what do you think 
about me? ~ From the 1988 film, Beaches -- adapted from the novel of the same name
 by Iris Rainer Dart

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Tips

TIP #9

Listen to your body.

 

Feet complain, stomachs beg, hearts sing, heads go on and on. Some of these voices are pushy, others meek; most you politely indulge.

But don't dismiss them. Pay them as much heed as you would your children, for they too are for you, of you.

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

 TIP #65

Celebrate your own footsteps.

A whisper through crispy autumn leaves; the earnest crunch of dried acorns; the thin chatter of a kicked pebble.

Though they bear the weight of the world, let your feet proclaim their joy…not just in getting somewhere, but in the going.

CRIES AND WHISPERS – Carried By Sound

Helen Keller, when asked which of her senses she missed most, chose hearing.
She said it was because she so missed the gentle, reassuring sound of her mother’s voice.

Hearing is an amazing sense—different from all the others in several important ways. First off, unlike the other senses, the perception of sound starts out as a purely mechanical process. Sound enters the ear as fluctuations in air pressure and those waves physically move the surface of the eardrum.

So, technically, our ears feel sounds before we hear them. This is why we can experience certain sounds—like music with a solid bass—in the rest of our bodies as well as our ears, and why even deaf people can enjoy music.

              What sounds transport you? 
              Where do they take you?

THE SEDUCTION OF SOUND
Sound has the power to transport us to another place, another time. This effect is pretty obvious when you're listening to music from a bygone era. Not only are those tunes—and often the way they were recorded—dated in their own right, they’re also full of associations with movies, plays and other cultural representations of the time.

But I’m also carried away by other, more timeless sounds: a dog barking or children laughing in the distance on a still summer night; the “sizzle” of insects and wind-rustled grasses in a hot August meadow; the congenial snapping of a campfire.

 

These sounds may not remind me of one specific time or place, but they transport me nonetheless—to a place of peace, contemplation and vague yearning. Is their seduction a call back to my childhood, or just to the idea of a simpler, purer life?

The otherworldly little clicks, glugs and whines of life underwater in a lake or river; the gregarious chatter of a high "V" of Canada geese cutting its way south through an October evening’s sky. What sounds transport you? Where do they take you?

I HEAR YOU
There is hearing—as in simply noticing sounds—and then there is listening. Even though I’m a highly visual person, I find myself listening with every nerve in my body. It completely commands my attention, effectively turning off my other senses. This can be unnerving.

For example, when my wife and I go somewhere in the car, if I listen to her (I don’t mean just nod and say “Yes, dear” once in a while; I mean really listen) I cannot see. Let me say that again: when I listen, my eyes don’t work. We could pass our exit, miss a detour, or fly haplessly into a speed trap; I wouldn’t have a clue.

      We need to turn off that interference, 
      allowing beauty and wonder to begin their 
      quiet, compelling conversation with us.

KINDER, GENTLER SOUNDS
Things we hear, like those we see and touch, have layers. And sound, like those other senses, lets us approach a curiosity in various ways. Sometimes it's not the most obvious sounds that are the most interesting.

We’re used to enduring so much man-made noise that Nature’s whispers—wave lap, ruffed grouse thump, wind breath through crispy leaves—get shouted down. Sometimes the only reason for one obnoxious racket is to snatch our attention away from another: TV, radio, cell phones, that breaking and entering of automated pitchmen on our answering machines. Why do we put up with it?

 

And then there’s the “noise” of our own thoughts and concerns. These, too, like static over an old recording, can stifle our ability to hear other kinder, gentler sounds. As we do with our other senses, we need to turn off that interference, allowing beauty and wonder to begin their quiet, compelling conversation with us.

When Nature speaks, it’s for a reason; we should listen. She may be speaking to our minds, letting us know of something we should either interact with or avoid. Sometimes the message is for our bodies, reminding us of our physical limits.

But she also speaks, as Helen Keller’s mother did to her, to our hearts and our spirits, reminding us of our belonging to her.

FREQUENCY – Tuning In To Discovery

“What are you doing?” my mother asked skeptically. She’d glanced into the living room of our summer home on the St. Croix River and seen what must have been a disturbing sight. There I was hunched over the antique table in the corner, my neck craned, chin resting on the black oilcloth covering.

My left ear was pressed against the dark brown Bakelite speaker grill of our old Emerson table radio. (This radio, now a collector's item, had no digital this or electronic that, just one knob for on/off and volume, and another for tuning.) My right hand, reaching around my head, was on the tuning dial. With my thumb and middle finger grasping the knob delicately, and other fingers extended, I might have been mistaken for a veteran safecracker.

Illustration: Katy Farina

You have to understand that our little community of Franconia, while an absolute wonderland for adventurous kids by day, offered very little to do at night, except for maybe playing games or reading. That night, I was demonstrating my usual disdain for such pastimes in favor of some kind—any kind—of firsthand adventure.

Some nights would deliver a “perfect storm” 
of radio waves to that little Emerson.

A TENTATIVE RECEPTION
If I’d had a name for it, I guess what my mom walked in on would have been called “the fine tuning game.” I’d discovered that, on certain nights, the river valley acted as a conduit, channeling radio waves from great distances. Add clear skies and a phenomenon called “skip”—in which the waves are prevented from dissipating in the atmosphere by some stratum or another—and the night would deliver a “perfect storm” of radio waves to that little Emerson.

I’d start turning the tuning knob and, bypassing the clear, strong stations, listen for the faintest signal I could make out. This took a delicate touch; I had to be ready to adjust the volume too, since reception of those far-away stations would fade in and out. My ultimate goal was to see if I could hear a station break while the signal was strong enough to recognize the station’s location or call letters. (Of course, my chances would spike on the hour and half-hour, when stations are required to give their IDs.)

A FIFTY-THOUSAND-WATT PASSION
Those faint voices brought down the walls of that dim, musty room. My little Emerson might as well have been some deep space receiver developed by NASA. How mysterious and wonderful to learn how far some of those radio waves had traveled to reach my ear. I imagined them as sheer curtains, undulating through a thousand miles or more of starry skies.

I wrote down the stations’ call letters and locations and kept a list. That summer I logged contacts from as far away as Texas, Arkansas, New York and Quebec. Some of the broadcasts were in Spanish or French, making them all the more exotic to my young ear.

I can now see what a rich metaphor for all 
kinds of discovery this fine-tuning game is.

WITH WHAT FREQUENCY DO YOU DISCOVER?
Reflecting on all of this, I can now see what a rich metaphor for all kinds of discovery this fine-tuning game is. Whether you’re listening, looking, feeling, tasting, reflecting or praying, aren't you just curious to know what’s out there?

How good are you at “listening between the stations?” Can you filter out the static and make out the underlying message? Do you have the patience to wait for something wonderful to happen? 

These questions never become obsolete. 

THE TRUTH OF SILENCE

There's a "fill-in-the-blanks" conspiracy out there, a plot to cover every square inch of every possible surface with a mark claiming it as either the property or the advertising medium of some enterprise or another. If it's not already there, we'll soon see advertising tattooed on people's faces!

And, as if this visual scourge weren't bad enough, the offensive has also taken aim on audible open space.

In this era of $10 million-a-minute Super Bowl spots and ever- more- aggressive, ever- more- creative advertising blitzes, air time is money. Those nice quiet spells sitting in a theater, waiting for the feature to begin…gone. Being able to concentrate on your shopping list while negotiating the aisles at the super market…nope. Escaping the blitz on "commercial-free" public media…forget about it.


  Silences are the driving force behind real dialog.

Furthermore, this saturation of every possible medium with some kind of message seems to have spilled over into how we human animals communicate with each other. To be fair, we already seem to have a natural discomfort with silences in our conversation. But have you noticed that, between this aversion and the aggression of sheer, blatant self-promotion, it's often hard for one without an agenda to get in a word edgewise?

In fact, it's gone beyond just losing the silent intervals in conversation; the new norm seems to be for all the tracks of a conversation to run simultaneously. In Minnesota Public Radio's just completed membership drive, for example, it struck me how this multi-tracking banter has become the norm for these fundraising affairs. The same with those inane morning TV talk shows; everyone's talking over each other. Do they know something we don't? Is that really what they think we want to hear?

I LOVE SILENCES
I've only recently begun to articulate what it is that bothers me so much about this trend. I love silences. Not necessarily silence in general, though I enjoy that too, but intervals of silence, pauses, a little breathing room here and there in a conversation.

Silences are the driving force behind real dialog. Not only do they indicate that the speaker is thinking—a good thing, don't you think?—they also give the listener a chance to enter the conversation. And even when it's just one-way communication—such as a speech or a lecture—those little breaks allow listeners a chance to begin processing what they're hearing, time, if you will, to respond mentally.

   It was as if he'd intentionally allowed those 
   intervals for the thoughts to complete 
   their flow from him, transfer and take root 
   in my consciousness.

GIVING VOICE TO THE SPIRIT
I recently heard, for the first time, the voice of the astute author and spiritual guide, Eckhart Tolle. I was struck right away by how soft-spoken he is. But what drew me in even more were the lavish periods of silence he welcomes into his delivery—intervals of sometimes ten to fifteen seconds.

I suppose that, in some kinds of conversation, that sort of void might have made me uncomfortable. But, in this case, I found myself basking in those silences. You might say I found as much of a message in the spaces between his thoughts as in the thoughts themselves. It was as if he'd intentionally allowed those intervals for the thoughts to complete their flow from him, transfer and take root in my consciousness.

I also experience the spiritual richness of silence in church, in my men's group or at any gathering where time is devoted to quiet prayer or reflection. There's something so powerful and moving about a group of people together engaged in that kind of transcendent dialog. In those instances, it's even more clear to me how much we need silence in order for our own souls to both listen and speak to us.

SILENCE IS RELATIVE
Though we think of Nature—or more particularly, wilderness—as being rich with silence, this is rarely the case. I guess it's just that, unlike the background noise of our workaday worlds, the ambient sounds of nature are something we choose, and therefore welcome. Perhaps the whisper of pines, the gurgling of water, the jabber of birds, seem like silence because something deep inside tells us they belong.

    The next sound to enter that empty space in 
    my soul was the one that woke me the next 
    morning: the electrifying howls of a pack of 
    wolves from across the bay.

I've experienced utter silence just a few times in my life. The most memorable was one night while I was on a solo canoe trip deep in northern Minnesota's vast Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. As I lay in my sleeping bag one still, starry night, I realized I couldn't make out a sound of any kind. Not a breeze, not the smallest wave breaking, not even the ubiquitous, mournful plea of a distant loon. The silence was so profound that I experienced it as a thundering reverberation, perhaps a response my brain devised as its own nervous response to such an unaccustomed lack of stimulation.

I eventually fell back asleep, unaware at the time that the sound vacuum I'd experienced was to serve a higher purpose, to make room in my spirit for an even greater wonder that was to come. In fact, the very next sound to enter that empty space in my soul was the one that woke me the next morning: the electrifying howls of a pack of wolves from across the bay.

 So, what's the balance of noise and silence in your life? How do you experience the silences? Do you find yourself wanting more?

Music and silence combine strongly because music is done with silence, and silence is full of music. -- MARCEL MARCEAU