sound

“A person’s music is seen as a means of restoring the soul,
as well as confused and discordant bodily afflictions,
to the harmonic proportions that it shares
with the world soul of the cosmos.”

~ Plato, The Timaeus

While pandemic life has grounded elaborate plans and ambitions, simple attainments are also made difficult. Now thinking back through eight months of triage, distancing, and working amidst bunkering, I make note of the narrowed horizons. My optimistic travel plans drawn up last winter were humbled into crosstown errands. Indeed, I’m merely one of countless many that are scaled down to the brass tacks of personal safety and the earning of sustenance- all within the context of isolation. Hopefully it will not become necessary to have to choose between the two vital aspects of health and employment. It takes as much vigilance and resourcefulness to stay productive as it does to keep well. But as time irretrievably passes, though it may appear as such, quite clearly nothing stands still. Time continues cascading over all the stopped progress. There is so much to accomplish, but very few things can actually be done. The focus is survival.

Even at the outset of these times of lockdowns and related hardships, I noticed the prevalence of contrasts. As social malevolence manifested and broadcast itself, those who chose generosity emerged as bright exceptions. Humanity scrambles between the extremes of exploitation and mercy, while the natural world keeps vigil. And in this portion of my own vigil, as I keep watch in this night, my thoughts turn to the place held by sound in these times. Just as I recall the completely silent skies immediately after the 11th of September 2001, the first and most eerie aspect I noticed as the world began locking down in March was the desolate quiet of the streets.

The absence of sound is cause for notice, and so is the welcome presence of assuring sound. But this is surely not to say that quiet cannot be comforting. Just as there are welcoming forms of silence, there are also pleasant sounds. Several nights ago, the transformation into the late-autumn became pronouncedly audible to me, as I was awakened by wind and rainstorm-rattling windows. It was a reminder of sounds I’ve always liked. Soothing sounds provide an effect resembling fresh air. It’s a calming, accompanying presence. Indeed, not all sounds have these properties- even in the same categories. Radio, a lifelong companion, can be as much of a conduit of good reminders and wonder as it can be a prism of abrasion. A few weeks ago, I listened to Schumann’s Forest Scenes for the first time, and was so taken by the music and its performance that I stopped working so that I could better savour the sounds. I have a rather irrational habit of looking at the radio, when I want listen more clearly; I looked and listened. This particular radio station does not always broadcast music I find appealing. Normally, it’s a kitchen sink of classical pop: lots of martial-sounding rat-a-tat-tat “classical” orchestral music- regardless of time of day or night. Contrasting the sounds that I find to be sweet and textural- with cellos, harmonies, and counterpoint- are the pieces I call “music that needs to be oiled.” That latter category speaks for sounds that are scratchy, whining, and cacophonous that cause me to switch stations- or just choose some silence. It doesn’t make sense to opt for more annoyances than what already exists, especially in this chaotic era.

Pythagoras famously said, “Either be silent, or say something better than silence.” And by my lights, in this context, better is to say: consoling, life-giving, or perhaps even constructive. Surely a subjective and highly individualized definition. The quiet at five in the morning, with my coffee and breviary, is an expectant silence pointed toward newness and hope. A sound as subtle as the dulcet hiss of cars passing along my street is something I find soothing. So is the wind through the trees, familiar soft voices, birds, the scribing of my writing on paper, my percolator that converts sound into aroma, my landlady’s footsteps from upstairs, and foghorns from the waterfront. Part of why I’ve always loved walking and perching at the ocean’s edge, aside from the vistas, are the sounds of the water. The tides will determine the forces of crashing waves, along open seas. Then there are the sheltered inlets, with much quieter stirrings. With eyes closed, my imaginings are of an affectionate ladling of a large seaweed soup, the rounded stones clacking under the waters’ pulling. Such sounds transcend pandemics and hardships. Beyond material provisions, resourcing myself also includes knowing where to find consoling sounds.

The light and weather of November suddenly brought to mind one particular long-distance road trip I made. Having to cover 1300 miles in 2 days, I drove more than 750 miles in a straight shot, with just 3 brief fuel stops. The highways between western New York State and northeastern Ohio were imperiled by a fierce winter storm, but I reduced speed and stayed my course. I kept the windows defrosted and the radio on, gripping the steering wheel and bonding with my rental car. Finally reaching my planned destination, parking in a snow drift next to a hotel and shutting off the engine, I instinctively closed my eyes. The driving was intense and my catharsis was equally pronounced. Walking to a nearby diner to decompress and replenish, the restless fatigue was later finally solved when I saw that my small hotel room had a real bathtub. Part of that perfectly consoling and soapy hot bath was in the sound of the water, reminding me of home, while the winter weather continued pelting at the windows. Before retaking the road the next morning, I dined with fellow guests in the breakfast room.

The hotel, on the following morning.

Sharing meals with strangers in a common room, replete with convivial sounds of voices and crockery, is now an impossible enjoyment. Surviving the pandemic has brought about alienation from our travels and from one another. The timbres and tones of humanity are severely curtailed. The last time I was compressed in a crowd was in late-February at Boston’s North Station. My thoughts were not occupied with contagion, but rather with getting a good seat on the train. Nobody would’ve expected that crowd noises would become something rarified. And so rarified that when major league sports resumed to play their abnormal and abbreviated seasons, they would be doing that in empty arenas against the backdrop of canned crowd noises (to audiences of cardboard photos of spectators). Listening to some of the baseball games on the radio had me wondering about broadcast technicians splicing together enough sounds of sports fans to create many hours of banal background noise. What an odd testament to the greater oddness and unreality of isolation. It also attests to how important pleasant and assuring sounds are to so many, reminding us of our wishes. We search for comforts while carrying a nostalgia for a better future. Within the need to be resourced for survival is our comprehension of sound: choosing away from what injures the soul- as much as possible- and choosing toward strength and inspiration.

stay this moment

“Look on eternity as near at hand.
While I am thinking and writing of it,
it hastens near,
and I am entering into it
before I am aware.”

~ Richard Baxter, The Saint’s Everlasting Rest, ch. 12.

lux in tenebris

“you chose to listen not to your doubts and fears,
but to your greatest hopes
and highest aspirations;
we mark the end of one historic journey
with the beginning of another...”

~ Barack Obama, speech- 3 June 2008

On my returns home from work much of this week, after what would seem an unbroken chain of saturated days and events, I’ve simply had to go back out for walks. Just a few blocks. Some days’ cumulative effects leave me consumed and with scarce reserves; these days have made for such occasions. These are grim times- save for our recent election euphoria, and night falls so much earlier quite suddenly. Thursday night I took one of these decompression walks, out in the dark chilled air. Across Longfellow Square and south onto State Street, passing the little floodlit shrine beside the convent, then west onto Spring Street. The West End now has as many leaves underfoot as overhead. Slowing my paces, I thought of how vital it has been to continue writing- even straight through my fatigue; even if the words don’t immediately amount to anything. Finding a bench near some street lighting, I penciled a few notes, finding a little verbal traction to strengthen my reach. When seeking new words fails me, I reach for the best ones I can remember. When my recollections are clouded to the extent that I cannot determine what is best to recall, I keep my feet moving forward. By proceeding, even without words, I am trusting they will emerge in time. If I only know to reach forward, that is sufficient.



Just as it was intuitively vital to take those after-work fresh air walks, I am equally grateful for perseverance in writing- albeit in fragments, lists, and all I could conjure up during ten-minute coffee breaks. In continuity, particularly the unspectacular kind, is found the essence of faithfulness. Indeed, there are seasons of any length that challenge us to continue in constructive motion, trusting the words will follow. But to prevent from being diverted or stifled by distrust and fear is a learned effort. The spiritual discipline of “fear not” causes me to consider what I can do to keep unfettered by apprehension and to cultivate trust. As I think of this as a learned practice, at this moment today, it means maintaining a consistent spirit of prayer at each and every turn. Be sure there are breaths of reflection interspersed through the day, offsetting the chaotic with lectio Divina and silence from the clatter and clamor that can encrust as barnacles on the side of a boat. Another is to continually think the best of others- even if I encounter intentions that are difficult to comprehend, or if I notice myself chafing with a pace far too slow or reticent for my sense of urgency. Still another, and a lamp to keep fueled by night, is to wholeheartedly embrace the spiritual gift of belief that the best is still yet to manifest.



But our road conditions and visibility will vary; we are not always navigating through adversity. And if we do regard vast tracts of this culture as spiritual wilderness, then we might consider fatalism to be the most corrosive of desert temptations. To practice a life of “fear not,” the challenge is to not capitulate to cynicism, and to transcend obstacles in our way that ignite fear and small-mindedness. It is a practice, because it demands constant application. Through minefields of doubt, and the margins along which many of us walk alone, perseverance allows us to explore the length and breadth of the meaning of faith. There is a danger in basing our prayers upon just the few things we can see. Without boldness, how would anyone know humility? There is more than this, far more than one could ever see in the distance.


Looking forward needn’t mean losing the moment. I spent years out of my life grudgingly wishing for what I did not have. An attitude like that diverts from taking stock in blessings immediately at hand. But it is worthy to aspire. One might ask what is worth accumulating, or what sort of yearning is healthful. Wishing for something more can be a sacred calling from within. To comprehend more and to provide better. To know the strength of the new life, in its fullness, was the wish articulated by the ancient apostle Paul. He also wished this for his friends and readers: to live as one who is risen from the dead, and to know love that surpasses understanding. The pressing forward, and the drive to persevere, is the high calling that becomes our lighthouse through dark nights at sea. And in this transformative journey I sense my wearily limited perspective very gradually broadening as it dissolves into that risen life. Evidence of simply the motion itself is a light to me. The action of reaching hopes we saw from afar is assurance of renewal.