Updated: Jan 23
~A man by the name, Bernie Krause, sat in a cornfield overnight to capture and record the sound of growing corn. He did, in fact, discover that corn produces a sound as it telescopically grows. He said it produces "clicks" and "squeaks" that sound like "rubbing dry hands in quick, jerky movements across... a well-inflated... balloon." Surprised to find such a loud and unique noise, Krause asks, in his book, "The Great Animal Orchestra," what other sounds are we missing?
I am inspired these days, by this author, to try and let my ears see— to not rely so heavily on my eyes. I've brought this concept with me to my vacation in Brittany, where I sit with my friends on purple rocks, and let the sounds of the ocean guide me towards meditation and reflection.
I reflect on a recent dinner with my friend and his mom. I focus on her sounds more than her movements.
~You notice more when you close your eyes; I try to listen. A ritual, I close them as a wave crashes. For the first time, I can finally see my eyes— the color, the depth, the gentleness. The most beautiful green—sea foam— the water brushes across, seeps in to conquer, and then remains. The puddles, leftover from high tide, imprint purples and greens as spiritual crystals, enticing me to fall in. This reminds me of falling leaves. Just the reds and oranges of which I always wanted to wear.
I hold a shell to my ear. It sounds like my reflection in sidewalk puddles. What does it mean to be heard— to only be heard?
~I see her. I listen to her. Laughing— always quick to giggle, like me. Comforting— she is attentive to my words.
In the most admirable way, she holds herself in beauty. Eyelashes and hair that are only enhanced with an elegant ensemble. Watching what she eats, she complains about weight like a proper lady.
I try to hear. I relax my eyes for just a moment.
This soul is youthful. Full of life, she is adventurous and kind. She desperately craves and searches for a never ending light— the kind found in paintings and sunsets— and visits museums often, carrying her past and future in a simple handbag. So much compassion, she carries more than her hands can hold. The sound of her breath tells me so.
This woman deserves more than she is given— or maybe something different. She is a harp in an orchestra with delicacy she wraps in tapestries. She is provided for, but it is her soul that yearns for more.
It is evident that this Paris air is saving her. She is happy on her deepest level: the way she hugs me; the way she kisses her son. The sound is a soft timbre of wind moving through grass. There are flowers too, and she wears the perfume. The sound is bright. The sound is love.
~ Kelley et moi ~