Favorite Sounds
I like the silence as long as it is not sustained by my worry. Here it goes again…the worry about what new variant awaits. The silence seems to sustain my worry, particularly in the middle of the night. At 2 am when Asher beckons to go out. Last night, walking on the silent sidewalks. Not stopping for treats or a sniff or the trainer's suggestion to say, "yes, " whenever he turns to grin at me as opposed to lunging or barking because being leashed on our block encourages his long, protective gaze. Otherwise, the sweetest, most affectionate. There it goes again, my needing everyone to like and approve. Such is the inner voice that always breaks the silence.
One of my favorite sounds is the ocean. It amazes me as as it swells from the outside as well as from the inside. The waves crashing and the ceaseless merging of sand and air and water. It soothes and reassures as nothing else. The ocean in Kauai where we managed to land in August in between surges and variants. Walking each morning to the soft, warm sand. At sunrise there were the sea turtles gathered silently and motionless. Later there were the sounds of children and bits of conversation, all in service to the surf. Beaches in Marin or Pacifica. Bits of sound heard from a hilltop or right in front of me as Asher runs and rolls and digs and amazes with his boundless energy and joy.
One of my favorite sounds is the ring tone I reserve for Nico's phone calls. It beckons me from wherever I am hiding. Buried in a book or my writing or cooking. It announces that my son with the chocolate eyes is calling. To elaborate on his day, always described in slowly paced, complete sentences. How is it we cannot talk for less than 60 minutes? I grin inside each time I hear the familiar ringtone. Whatever worry has filled the hollow place is gone. With that phone call.
One of my favorite sounds is Asher's. Not so much the barking, but the soft whine which beckons me to attend to him. Often it is the silence of his presence which moves me. I fill the silence with questions. I confess…I believe he is always thinking. Forming a question or a request which becomes a head tilt, a walk to the back door. A tail wag. In this silence I am not worrying, but filling in the missing pieces. The words he seems not to have.
One of my favorite sounds is to hear their breathing. Asher and Robert. Lying next to me or curled on top, if it is Asher. A woman wrote somewhere that even with nighttime wakefulness, unwelcome interruptions to a full night, she was reassured to hear the dog and the husband, Their breath and their life. Reassuring and an antidote to her frustration and impatience that they were sleeping and she was not. I think of her, imagining that somewhere as I lie awake others are also. That in this nighttime silence I can move from solo worrying to the community of others waking and worrying and not sleeping in the hollow of their silence. Perhaps we are all being nestled and cared for as we wait quietly to slumber. There is community in this silence. Together and quiet. But not alone.