Listening Past The Noise

Beep-beep-beep-beep, I hear the constant noise of a business just one mountain over from us. We often tell our guests that sound carries in this valley, and that is no lie. Today, it seems as though the breeze is bringing the sound my way. Du-du-du, mingling with the clank-ety clank of engines pushing and scraping. Another engine chugs to life. Beep-du-beep. It’s all day long.

My view, however, is textbook. The steep, not-so-gentle slope of the hill coming off our back patio dips ever downward into an overgrown brushy area of trees and leaves where deer often like to bed down. In the distance, I hear a man yell a sound that I cannot make out. Beeping and engines continue.

In front of me, dry leaves lay fallen. Winter’s blanket for the ground, our rocky soil welcomes the nourishment, chirps and cheeps, then the dee-dee-dee of a Chickadee. Walking out, I spooked the doves, hoping they would come back when they realized I was no threat. I love when winter delays its cold slap across the cheek. Mornings like this make the season bearable.

Deet-deet-deet, another machine’s noise, but that one beep above all will not stop. I try to tune it out, trying to focus on the chickadee and the titmouse and the occasional crow with the hawk. That relentless beep with its piercing signal, I see red. I can imagine there is a red light attached to the top of whatever is making that beeping noise. The cathedral chime plays in the key of C, humming, switching octaves as the gentle breeze passes by.  

Woodpecker calls to the chickadee, wondering why I’m here. I guess I came to listen to the business over the mountain, because beyond that, it’s hard to listen to anything else. The thing about the industry over the hill is that it isn’t even in my backyard. It doesn’t pertain to me. But the call of the birds, they are here, they are in my yard, in my trees. They pertain to me.

Isn’t that just like us? We want to focus on what’s happening around and beyond us, things that have nothing to do with us, because sometimes they’re louder and more evident than what actually matters. Sometimes, those things cause us more distress and keep us from enjoying the little things right in front of us. The birds and squirrels ignore the background noise; maybe we could learn from them.

A squirrel is hopping at the bottom of the hill, unfazed. Caw-caw-caw, says the crow. I hear the hum of the hot tub turning back on, working to keep the water at an ideal temperature. The breeze switches directions, proudly reminding me that it is winter, after all. Dark clouds peek over the mountain, shoving the sun to the side.

The beep of that business is the kind of sound they use to torture people, relentless, shrill, designed to drive you insane. Someone’s dog in the distance barks. Leaves rustle as the squirrel jumps, skips, and hops. What an enjoyable sight.

I take a swig of my lukewarm coffee and ponder:

If I didn’t mind missing the aviary conversations, I might wear headphones next time.