What I Hear
The thing about quiet, in an almost sadistic way, is that it can be surprisingly loud.
I have been in Mexico now a little over forty-eight hours. Much to my surprise on this visit, I have noticed what I hear more than anything else.
In the mornings, I don't hear much of anything because "we are silent" for the duration of each morning. Today and yesterday, at 5 a.m., I awoke to the polite tinkling of unobtrusive bells outside my door. In response, I get up and go outside, where we gather and silently drink tea until the next bell rings, at which time we collect ourselves for meditation. During an hour of meditation the yoga teacher speaks sporadically to guide us while we maintain our silence and meditate (which is new to me and extremely difficult). We continue in silence for another hour of breathing exercises, then breakfast, then three hours of yoga. All told, I have kept my yapper shut for about six and a half hours each morning. Surprised? Impressed? I am.
It's really an incredible experience. And I find myself much more thoughtful about how and when I choose to speak during the rest of the day. What will I say? To whom will I say it? Should I say it in English or Spanish? More often, I find myself listening.
I have always had an affinity for Mexico, for her people, her land, her history, her culture. There are problems here and I would like very much to see them solved. Mexico is not new to me. But this overt intent at observation, this act of listening, is new to me, and what I am observing here in Mexico is surprisingly aural. Mexico is full of the loveliest sounds. They are sounds I have heard before but they are new to me today.
I hear children playing in the street and on the beach: I hear their voices and the sing-song of Mexican Spanish that I have always loved as it rolls off 8 and 9 year-old tongues. I wonder why these children are not in school.
I hear animals: Birds chirping and dogs barking, a donkey braying, a rooster crowing. I hear them as they are, innocent and hungry, playful, mindless, living alongside their human counterparts. I hear them and they do not disturb me.
I hear the ocean: It is rhythmic and strong, beautiful and predictable, but still a little scary to me. It's powerful and it's loud, shockingly loud to my urban sensibilities. It’s exotic yet reliable.
I hear Mexican men working across the street from the yoga center. I hear the same music on the radio I have heard at home. I hear their shovels banging against concrete and their wheelbarrows scraping the crude pavement.
I hear an old woman calling to tourists on the beach. She wants to sell them jewelry.
I hear a car driving slowly and a man speaking on a loudspeaker from within. He says things I don’t hear or can’t understand about a political party and where to vote. I hear music from inside his car. I hear his hope for change.
I hear profanity and laughter from the Mexican men on the street. I hear them open cans and bottles of beer while it’s still morning.
I hear silence.
I have been in Mexico now a little over forty-eight hours. Much to my surprise on this visit, I have noticed what I hear more than anything else.
In the mornings, I don't hear much of anything because "we are silent" for the duration of each morning. Today and yesterday, at 5 a.m., I awoke to the polite tinkling of unobtrusive bells outside my door. In response, I get up and go outside, where we gather and silently drink tea until the next bell rings, at which time we collect ourselves for meditation. During an hour of meditation the yoga teacher speaks sporadically to guide us while we maintain our silence and meditate (which is new to me and extremely difficult). We continue in silence for another hour of breathing exercises, then breakfast, then three hours of yoga. All told, I have kept my yapper shut for about six and a half hours each morning. Surprised? Impressed? I am.
It's really an incredible experience. And I find myself much more thoughtful about how and when I choose to speak during the rest of the day. What will I say? To whom will I say it? Should I say it in English or Spanish? More often, I find myself listening.
I have always had an affinity for Mexico, for her people, her land, her history, her culture. There are problems here and I would like very much to see them solved. Mexico is not new to me. But this overt intent at observation, this act of listening, is new to me, and what I am observing here in Mexico is surprisingly aural. Mexico is full of the loveliest sounds. They are sounds I have heard before but they are new to me today.
I hear children playing in the street and on the beach: I hear their voices and the sing-song of Mexican Spanish that I have always loved as it rolls off 8 and 9 year-old tongues. I wonder why these children are not in school.
I hear animals: Birds chirping and dogs barking, a donkey braying, a rooster crowing. I hear them as they are, innocent and hungry, playful, mindless, living alongside their human counterparts. I hear them and they do not disturb me.
I hear the ocean: It is rhythmic and strong, beautiful and predictable, but still a little scary to me. It's powerful and it's loud, shockingly loud to my urban sensibilities. It’s exotic yet reliable.
I hear Mexican men working across the street from the yoga center. I hear the same music on the radio I have heard at home. I hear their shovels banging against concrete and their wheelbarrows scraping the crude pavement.
I hear an old woman calling to tourists on the beach. She wants to sell them jewelry.
I hear a car driving slowly and a man speaking on a loudspeaker from within. He says things I don’t hear or can’t understand about a political party and where to vote. I hear music from inside his car. I hear his hope for change.
I hear profanity and laughter from the Mexican men on the street. I hear them open cans and bottles of beer while it’s still morning.
I hear silence.
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