I surrendered my ‘top of the line’, broken earphones to the young man behind the desk, who assured me that the people at Sennheiser would do everything to bring my beloved right ear-pod back to life. He said I’ll find out if their intervention was successful in around two or three weeks. Before I could ask any questions, he passed me a receipt and his lanyard swung as he motioned to the next customer in line, and there I was, without my private audio world, forced to listen to the real world around me.
I walked out of the shop into the belly of the shopping centre, confronted by the din of noisy shoppers and with a soundtrack of mall music filling the centre. Earphones provide an audio wall between this world and new worlds brought alive through audiobooks, podcasts, radio and music. They block out the real world with its adolescent shrieks, guttural coughs, the hum of traffic, and the seeming omnipresence of Taylor Swift.
I have become so accustomed to using my earphones while I’m out and about, and sometimes at home that now, without them, it dawned on me how uncomfortable I have become with not being plugged in. My habit of listening to something on my earphones has given me a false sense of productivity. Go for a walk, listen to a podcast, commute, listen to an audiobook, clean the house, and listen to music. I even enjoy listening to podcasts while cooking. I do enjoy all of these audio accompaniments in my day, but I’ve realised in the last few days of earphonelessness, that I hadn’t actively listened to my ordinary day-to-day surroundings for a very long time.
So, as I left the shopping centre and my earphones behind a few days ago, I began facing my new-found noisy existence. I waited for a bus and began to listen more intently to the urban symphony which I had so joyfully excluded from my audiosphere. On the bench waiting beside me was a gaggle of teenagers, brimming with hormonal excitement, humming tunes, giggling, flirting and huddling around their phones oohing and ahhing over TikTok dance moves. They were simultaneously absorbing the external happenings, ensuring nothing and no one escaped their surveillance. Not least the other young schoolgoers.
Cars hummed in the slow traffic, the rumbling of a big motor cut through the chatter, and subwoofers banged out doof-doof beats. Then sirens, first an ambulance and then a firetruck, drew closer and closer until they appeared in the road before us. As they went out of range, the silence that grew in their presence subsided and the teens began chatting again. A man's passed them, cursing the late bus. The absence of my earphones meant that when the bus did finally arrive, the lady waiting patiently alongside me in the queue spoke to me about the bus times and the likelihood of an accident on account of the sirens. On the bus, people were mostly quiet as the day neared its end, other than the ding of the bell announcing the next stop, and the lovely tradition here, of thanking the bus driver. By the last stop, which was mine, we had traversed the urban sprawl up into the bush suburbs by the sea, the only sounds remaining were the motor and the push-pull of breaks and gears as the driver navigated the winding roads.
With this new-found aural awareness, I’ve been interested in how a walk in nature might be. Certainly, there are times when earphones are not a part of my nature walks, hikes or long walks. On short local walks though I usually listen to podcasts, and remove the earphones momentarily to sit and listen, albeit somewhat briefly. On my last walk then I decided to make note of what I heard, honing in specifically on listening actively not to the exclusion of course, of the rest of my senses, but rather a meditative practice of sorts, lightly refocusing on hearing when the lens of my attention drifted to meandering thoughts or visual distraction. It was made easier by a slightly dull and unremarkable day, though the burnt orange of a huge Monarch Butterfly did keep me from my ears for a few moments, as I traced its path in front of me. The cough-squawk sound of a Wattle Bird call brought me back to listening. So here's a short list (because the longlist is too long) of what I noticed on the hour or so that I walked…
My feet scuffing on the rocks and paving in the driveway
A car winding down the road beside me
Children calling each other, and the sound of their feet thumping to propel their scooters on the freshly laid asphalt
My breath quickened with an increased pace
Swish Swish of my arms moving in my rainjacket
A change from the sound of my feet on the asphalt, a clap scuff to a muted scuff-thud on damp leaves
The sweet melodic whistle of a pair of Willy Wagtails calling
The soft, almost inaudible thud of my feed as I descend into the grassy meadow
The high-pitched familiar chatter-call of the superb Fairy Wrens in surround sound as I walk through the scrub
A backdrop sound of swishing grass moving in the wind and grasshoppers and crickets pulsing loud and soft, loud and soft
The foreground of the waves crashing against the beach and cliffs below, the pull and drag as the waves retreat
The wind whistling and catching my rainjacket and the crinkle-swish as it parachutes upwards around my ears
The clink of bottles and raucous chatter of tradesmen enjoying drinks overlooking the beach
The soft compression and squeak of my feet in the sand
The rush of wind in my ears and through the dunes
The slow undulating lapping of the water against the sand in the lagoon, against the crash of the waves further down the beach (I stood and listened to this for a while)
The alarming keeekekekeke squeak of a Lapwing parent announcing its presence to me
The reeds rustling in the wind and the trickle of slow-moving water in the creek
The creaking bows and branches of the She Oaks bending gently in the wind
The splosh and swish of the change in pace of the fast-moving water over boulders and rocks higher up the creek
The frantic-sounding screech-call of Rainbow Lorikeets hurriedly racing overhead
The cracking crunching, gnawing of a Sulphur Crested Cockatoo in the bow of a tree
Tinder dry Eucalypt leaves and bark underfoot
The rush of wind in the leaves of the tall Eucalpts overhead
The saw-like crackling of dried palm fronds blowing and rubbing in the wind
The short ‘bok’ pop-like sound of a Striped Marsh frog, nestled in the gully-like garden
The swoosh of the flyscreen as I return home
This edited list was at least twice as long. It was such a lovely experience to notice the incredible soundscape of nature. It’s not an unfamiliar practice, to stop and listen, but to pay closer attention to things like my own movements, the depth of sound, stopping to listen to particular sounds for longer, like the creaking She Oaks which sounded almost as if they were communicating, so much so that I mistook their sounds for birds at first. The hypnotic sound of lagoon water, lapping at the shore put me under a spell until the family of Lapwings requested I move on out of their territory.
It’s been interesting to see this habit I cultivated almost unknowingly. I do make room to be mindful while outdoors, but it's often in such short bursts, earphones out to listen here and there, but back in again when nothing captures my attention. What I’m noticing after this listening-walk, is that perhaps there is so much to pay attention to, it can be almost overwhelming to focus and practice isolating sounds. Australian natural landscapes are cacophonous at times, from the hysteria of a flock of roosting Sulphur-Crested Cockatoos to the pulsating deafening waves of Cicada song on a hot Summers Day. I’m also aware that urban sounds, like the shopping centres and busy streets, or the sound of imposing media and chatter are also overwhelming at times, it's only when they cease or are out of range that we have true silence (as close to silence as possible) do we realise that the noise, both real and metaphorical, is a distraction.
I’m interested in how by turning off and tuning in, with our mental antenna, our mindful attention and curiosity, that ‘noise’ can transmute into sound. How distraction can become clarity. I see how the mental framing of our sensory input changes by paying more attention to a subject and acknowledging it, and somehow loosening the grip of sensory or mental overwhelm. We have much more control over our capacity to choose how we focus our attention than we realise, it just takes practice or in my case, the breakdown of technology! I’m curious about how or when you’ve noticed your senses become more alive, more tuned in?
Natures notes is proudly written on and inspired by Dharawal Country. I recognise the Dharawal & Wodi Wodi custodians and ancestors who have an enduring connection to land, water and skies.
Always Was and Always Will be Aboriginal Land.
I'm not an audio person, especially outdoors, but your listening walk makes me realise that I don't really pay attention to soundscapes at all. I love your lush descriptions of the sounds you noticed. Time to tune in indeed!
I’ve always enjoyed listening to the entire soundscape, near and far, as a combined “voice” of the place….the valley, or the yard, or the village. Somehow that can shift the feeling of cacophony…. Though many places do indeed have layers of constant and diverse sounds that can be overwhelming! Happy listening til your ‘buds are back!