It took a long time for me to understand the sound of
silence.
For the last few years, there has been a ringing in my
ears. Tinnitus. The audiologist has told me that my ears
have stopped transmitting higher pitched sounds to my brain. He really couldn’t add an explanation
about why this occurs but it does – and the likelihood of developing tinnitus
increases with age.
The most interesting thing he told me about tinnitus is that
the ringing isn’t from any naturally produced sound. What I think I hear as ringing is really my brain filling
the void left by my ears' failure to transmit sound. It fills the gap with the
memory of sound. It is as though
the part of the brain that interprets sound cannot rest, when there is no sound
the conscious part of the brain thinks it hears what we’ve labeled
ringing. The brain could, I
suppose, but doesn’t fill the void with the ringing of a beautiful gong like
freedom’s bell or the soothing tones made by the meticulous hand rhythms of a
bell choir. The faux ringing is a
constant, high frequency tone – like a monosyllabic siren that never shuts off
or like my own personal swarm of cicadas.
Tinnitus.
It’s a little like when the high-E string on my guitar snaps
and lashes out at my fingers. One
range of sound is gone and the upper frets of the B string have to do a lot
more work. Adapting is critical,
listening is essential.
This past weekend, autism’s grasp squeezed our grandson for
a time. He had difficulty calming
the demons of sensory overload. He
screamed back at it in a high-pitched squeal with the greatest decibels he
could muster. I think he was
trying to override the sounds he was hearing – sounds that no one else can hear;
like with tinnitus, the sounds that were never made. We decided to change the scene, to take a ride in the Mini
Cooper.
Still not calm. I clicked the joy stick (the controller for my audio system,
not something smokeable) over to my iPod.
Music played. The sounds of
James Taylor’s finger style riffs, the vibrato of Aaron Neville’s notes, and Eva
Cassidy’s soft serenades brought calm from chaos. Mason didn’t scream or hum. I calmed but did hum.
These sounds penetrated autism’s blockades and pierced the tinnitus
screech –
certainly these are not equal afflictions but such sounds quelled something
stressful in each of us.
For a deaf person, sound is made of signals generated by
someone’s hands or lips plus the vibration that moves their feet or the tips of
their fingers. Good sound relieves
their stress and brings a smile forth from a troubled face. They are sounds that most of the rest
of us will never hear but they are sounds none-the-less. Real sounds with all the power of
spoken words or melodies sung.
If there is one greatest-of-all gift, it is the capacity to
listen. The ability to listen is
the gift; listening is a choice. When
stress has stolen sleep from me, my stress-laden thoughts seem driven to find
words to say – but stress only dissipates when listening, not speaking. Stress and worry are about the future
and the quest to control it. Sounds
are in and of the present. The
sounds of music can give sleep back because such sounds greet us exactly as expected. Disappointment cannot arrive with
unfulfilled expectations. Living
in that moment makes fear dismount and skulk away.
In those long, dark nights when sleep seems a futile goal,
listening is the antidote.
Listening to music.
Listening to the dialog that jumps from a printed page and seeing the
scenes painted by written sounds renders speaking irrelevant. When I dream about my happiest time or
fondest memory, I see myself drinking in the place, the people, the sky and the
breeze – I never relive (or remember) the words I spoke.
It’s quiet here.
No music is playing. The TV
is off. My guitar is in its
stand. The cicadas have taken a
break. The air conditioner is
temporarily at rest. The ringing
in my ears that isn’t real – is really loud. Maybe I’ll listen to the Sound
Of Silence.
--td