When I decided to move from Sydney to Manhattan three years ago, the most common response I had from my friends was; “What about the beach??” Implying of course, I was mad to leave behind the craggy coves I spent so much time in, as well as those luscious, long summer days. I laughed, and pointed out some of New York’s more obvious attractions – the lights, the theatre, the seasons, the snow. Now, I long so acutely for the sea I used to swim in daily, sometimes it is like an ache. It wasn’t until I read Sara Maitland’s book on silence, though that I realized why: when I swim I only hear the sound of the ocean. When I dive under, I can hear my heart beat. And that kind of silence is precious and rare.
It’s true there can be a certain peace in the tiny island of Manhattan. The parks are lovely – if crowded by buskers in summer – and the bike paths along the river eventually lead through quiet fields. For the first few years, my office overlooked Central Park, and I walked through it on my way to work – I loved watching the seasons. Then they renovated our offices, remaking the façade of the building and a jackhammer was positioned directly outside my office walls for three months. They renovated three townhouses on my street, causing not just noise but the movement of many, many disturbed mice. It’s an urban existence, one many of my American friends both depend on and long to escape. When you dream of escape in a city of concrete canyons, of course, you imagine the world abounds with quieter, more peaceful places.
Which is why I was fascinated by the story of Gordon Hempton, “The Sound Tracker” when I met him. He believes silence is becoming extinct and has travelled the globe documenting the steady erosion of quiet places. He has some sobering findings…watch his story here
I grew up living beside a main road and became over the years almost immune to all but the most offensive trucks and motorbikes. My parents owned a bush block in the Gold Coast hinterland and we regularly had weekends away there. I clearly remember not being able to sleep on the first night. It was so quiet. What sounds there were were so strange. You could hear the wallabies biting off the grass and chewing, owls, frogs and crickets calling and the wind in the trees. There were no invasive sounds and after a while I was lulled into sleep. How I loved the place. Sadly Mum and Dad parted and I rarely went there again growing up. Dad lived there in his retirement and I visited occasionally but rarely stayed over night so wrapped up I guess in my city life. Dad became very ill last year and had to leave his home too unwell to remain any longer. He never stopped talking about his home and always wanted to return. Sadly he passed away and perhaps his greatest wish was to leave this place to me his son. I wondered what to do with this place. My life was in the city with my wife and child – sell it and move on I thought. So As the grief at his loss became easier it was time to prepare the place for sale. I spent time there again for the first time since I was a child. Despite the relentless encroach of the gold coast those childhood sounds were still there. But most of all the silence, the peace. The real estate agent wanted me to do some clearing to open up the view. So I hired a chainsaw and walked into the scrub and selected those trees to be sacrificed. After the first trees fell I stopped and wondered what I was doing. destroying not only the forest but the silence causing birds to cry out in alarm for people who want only a view in the distance overlooking the beauty in front of them. Within only a short time the place is working its magic on me again. I never knew in my city life how disconnected I had become nor how important silence and only nature sounds to interrupt, is to me. I’m hoping to move my family there now and share with my wife and son what my Dad taught and showed to me I never knew how special a gift that was until now.