Listening to the Senses
By definition, noise is noticeably unpleasant, an undesirable sound. Often, noise is loud. Too often, it is made by people and our machines.
Noise is not my friend.
Last week, Robert and I were notified that our road would be closed this week while the electric company erected new utility poles. The poles lay waiting in the weeds, like felled and blackened monuments to the dams that power much of our electricity in Washington.
“I imagine that will be very loud, yes?” I’m sure I winced as I interrogated the unfortunate worker who had to walk door-to-door spreading the news, certain to be as unwelcome by my neighbors as it was to me.
The man smiled apologetically, studied the scuffs on his shoes. “Yes” he agreed. “I’m afraid there will be significant noise.”
Normally, I would try to ride it out—close the windows, turn on some piano music, do my best to focus while the engines roared. But coupled with the daily barrage of political noise and a minor construction project underway in our garage, I decided to flee to the North Cascades.
This being early October, our field season is almost complete; we aim to check all of our wildlife cameras before the snow flies. Day after tomorrow, I’ll meet Robert in the mountains to visit our two remaining sites. Meanwhile, I am in Mazama, winding down.
In a recent Zoom workshop, poet Camille Dungy reminded us to write with our senses in order to deepen the experience of our readers and ourselves. Be aware of what you’re paying attention to—and, what you’re not.
I’ve tried to take this reminder to heart as I wander the woods and the riverbed near my guesthouse, to tune into my senses instead of the news while I’m here. Truth be told, I’ve done a little of both. But the results have been rewarding.
Yesterday at the river, which is seasonally dry, I sat quietly with my notebook and recorded everything I heard. The chatter of aspen leaves, the occasional fly or wasp buzzing by my ear. The wind playing like distant water off the sheer rock walls.
That was it. Only sound, no noise.
The sky was so clear that I actually contemplated outer space, not a visible cloud to contain my thoughts.
And those yellow aspen leaves against that boundless canvas of blue? Monet could have done no better.
Walking the trail, I let my feet feel the crunch of spent vegetation while pine needles and baked earth drifted to my nose.
My fingers traced bear tracks up the bark of a tree—"bear graffiti” my friend Denise called them when I texted her the photo.
Back at the cabin, I savored the final days of summer in my host’s vine-ripe tomato, mopped up its juices with a blissful baguette from the Mazama Store.
And then, just this morning, black bear tracks in the mud—a mother and her cubs hunting calories for winter.
Nearby, a large bear scat laden with berries and grass. I probed it with a stick and raised a blob to my nostrils, transporting me to the lab where Robert and I long ago dried samples for his PhD.
“These bear scats smell like cocoa!” I remember pronouncing with delight as I scooped chocolate-colored powder into cups for the scale. I can’t comment on the taste, though. I guess we all have our limits.
Some say there is a sixth sense, too: I feel change in the air.
When I listen to my senses, there is always change in the air.