Sounds of life

This morning, while I was walking on the edge of the marsh, I was reminded of this column I wrote several years ago.  In its original form, it was published in Mount Allison University’s student newspaper, The Argosy, as a guest writer for Through Stained Glass, the weekly reflection from the University Chaplain (whom I happen to know!).

Like pretty much anywhere in North America, bikers and runners are fairly frequent sights on our streets and roads.  I often see them near my home and out on the marsh.  Almost always, they are listening to some form of electronic device.  Young people, likewise, always seem to be plugged into their tunes.  In order to even start a basic conversation, you must wait for them first to notice you, and then to take out their ear buds. 

This morning, I went for a walk on the marsh.  I made a conscious effort to listen as I walked along the path.  These are the sounds I would have missed if I had been plugged into my iPod (yes, I still have an iPod!).  The sound of the water lapping at the edge of the lake, thanks to the heavy northwest breeze.  Someone mowing their lawn.  Cattle bawling as the tractor brought their morning bale of hay.  The squishing of their feet as they walked through the muddy farm yard.  The breeze in the newly formed leaves and the unmown hay.   The clear, sweet song of the song sparrow.  A robin chirping.  The water from the stream gently passing under the bridge.  The distant sound of traffic on the highway.  The loud buzzing of a very large bumblebee.  My own breaths.  And above everything, the soft, high whistles of cedar waxwings.

If I were walking in an urban downtown, I would have heard different sounds.  Perhaps car brakes, the sound of many feet pounding the pavement, car horns and engines, the squeaking of a traffic light waving in the wind, a cell phone (or 9 or 10) ringing,  doors opening and closing, the voices of people in conversation with companions (or with themselves), coins rattling in a tin can held out by a panhandler.  “The music of the traffic in the city,” as Petula Clark says in her classic song “Downtown.”

Listening helps us to connect with our surroundings.  So does the sense of smell.  In Sackville, we sometimes smell the salt air, which reminds us of our proximity to the Bay of Fundy and ultimately the Atlantic Ocean.  Out where I live, we frequently smell farm smells.  Mostly, it is bearable, and sometimes, like the when we pass a tractor pulling a very full tank of liquid manure, it’s enough to make our eyes water and our lungs gasp for fresh air.  I have often said that the every day smells of the barns don’t bother me at all.  They represent the honest, hard work of producing food, and remind us of our connection to our agricultural roots.

We are all guilty of being “plugged into” things that prevent us from connecting with our surroundings.  If it isn’t the seemingly ever–present music device, it is a mobile phone ear piece, or perhaps a social networking site on our laptops, or in the case of parents, maybe we are “plugged into” our children, or our careers, or the stress of trying to accomplish all the tasks in our busy lives.  We are so connected with our technology and our own lives that we become disconnected from our surroundings, and more importantly, from the people surrounding us. 

The Chapel on the Mount A campus is one place which helps us reconnect with our surroundings and those around us.  On any given day in the Chapel, there are a myriad of sounds that can help us connect with other people, with ourselves and with that which is bigger than any of us.  I always think of the Chapel as a quiet place, until I go in during an organ student’s practice time.  There is something about the largeness of the chapel that seems to inspire organists to open up the stops as much as possible, and the result is so much loudness that it is sometimes scary.  Other times, it is so quiet you can hear the occasional voices of people outside.  I have listened to the wind against the stone walls, and the rain against the stained glass.  I have heard the voices of choirs and soloists, the notes of flutes and trumpets, the strumming of guitars, and the lovely mellow tones of a euphonium echo off the sandstone walls. You can always hear the heavy doors squeaking closed when someone is late for chapel, no matter how carefully they enter.

Sackville’s own poet laureate, Douglas Lochhead, wrote:

life
is listening

is finding
sounds

is feeling
rhythms

in all
things

life
is waiting

is standing
here and there

is saying
words

is praying
everywhere

I hope today, wherever you are, you have the opportunity to find the sounds and feel the rhythms that connect you with the world and the people around you.