Highway Haven
The woods are quiet, but never silent. There were always sounds to hear, our ears just needed to get accustomed. At times, it is only our footsteps: soft muffled thumps made as we step on plush carpets of pine needles, little swooshes as we slip on wet matted oak leaves. It was only a few months ago that these same leaves were dry, and crunched and crackled beneath us, as they awaited the first snowfall. Some days, we hear the hiss and howl of the wind as it makes its way through the woods, churning up leaves and small twigs that dance their way down before landing lightly on the ground. We walk into a hemlock grove, under that dense shade that appears to swallow up all sound, and instinctively slow down, hesitant to disrupt that silence in any way. Naked branches of pine trees creak as they scrape against each other, and the pale yellow leaves of the beech trees that still remain from last year rustle ever so slightly. Tightly coiled young ferns poke their way through the earth, soon they will unfurl and grow long, and whisper as they brush against our bare legs during warm summer days.
Water has once again started to flow: one day, it is just a trickle down the bare face of a rock, the steady rhythm of one drop after another. Another day, right after a rainstorm, water tumbles in full force down the slopes into little falls, inviting us to stop and listen to that joyous orchestra of splishes, splashes and sploshes. And who can resist the gurgling of a meandering stream, as it sometimes murmurs and sometimes babbles its way down, calming a perturbed heart, much like a mother who coos to her crying baby.
It is the calls of the birds however, that let you know that you are not alone. The woods teem with cries that we, as novice bird-watchers, are unable to identify. The rattles, trills and warbles enliven the woods. We recognize the “chickadee-dee-dee” of the state bird, the chickadee, and the chirps of the robins. When we pass by wetlands, the Baltimore oriole makes its presence known with its whistles which are as striking as its orange breast. The most distinctive sound is made by the woodpecker, a loud drumming that reverberates through the forest, as it drills into what we imagine must be unyielding wood. If we look hard enough, we can sometimes spot it, its black and white striped body hard at work in the trees up above. There have been a few times when we heard the rushed rustling of feet, and watched the white tails of the deer as they quickly dispersed. And sometimes we hear conversations, of others like us, who cannot think of a better place to spend Sunday mornings than within the quiet, but never silent, woods.
Today, we are in a state forest in a neighboring town, and although it is our first time here, the woods feel like familiar stomping grounds. We look at the trail map, and decide to go to the highest point and back. Quarter of an hour in, and we become aware of a constant hum. The hum gets louder as we get deeper into the woods, like a thunder that does not stop, drowning out all other sounds. We pass a stream, but it is hard to tell whether it is murmuring or babbling. Determined to complete the loop, we steadily make our way up to the high point, and atop that sunbaked granite ledge, we finally see what we have been hearing all along: the highway. It is a highway that we use often, but have never experienced from this vantage point, and are amazed at the speed at which the cars move. We watch them whiz by, oblivious to the ruckus they are creating. And it is but Sunday morning; how much louder will this get in another twenty four hours? That deafening throb accompanies us as we make our way downhill. We do not know whether there are no birds here, or whether we cannot hear them sing with all that noise. Is it possible that they have got used to this constant drone, and have found a way to mask it? Not knowing enough about the hearing senses of birds, we hope that it does not impact them, and leave the woods, aware that we will possibly not return, and also aware that we have the privilege of making this choice.
That night, as I fold my freshly washed clothes, I switch on the TV and am inundated by the many advertisements for cars that talk lavishly about comfort and safety, polished looks that guarantee that I will be the envy of my neighbors. Above all, each one promises me a smooth, quiet ride. Peace of mind is only some car keys away. Don’t worry about what is happening outside, the commercials tell me, whether the constant chatter of young kids or the heated exchange you had with your boss: your car can be your escape. You can listen to music inside, and feel as if you have front-row seats to an exclusive performance. No matter the time of day, you can retreat into your own quiet safe sanctuary.
The deafening buzz from this morning, and now, the seductive images of the quiet safe ride: my mind finds it difficult to reconcile the two. I remember the many times that I have traversed that same highway, speeding away in my cocoon. Have we become careless of the sound that we make, as long as our own ride is smooth?
I wonder too about my own life, where I have set a high value on maintaining equanimity and composure inside, when there may be chaos around me. I have worked hard at being that island of calm, but was it only a cocoon, where I could luxuriate in quiet, while oblivious to the noise that my life was generating? The quest for inner peace suddenly sounds selfish, a pre-occupation with self. Perhaps it is time to turn my attention outward and extend a helping hand, realizing that all creatures, big and small, need their own safe sanctuary.
