There's a story that goes something like this. A lighthouse keeper lives in a little house below the towering structure for forty years; his sleep punctuated by the regular sounding of the foghorn. After forty years, one day the foghorn malfunctions and doesn't blast its alarm, resulting in silence. The lighthouse keeper sits bolt upright in his bed and asks, "What was that?!"
We used to live on a leafy acre backed up by a very busy street. At first we worried the noise would be bothersome. Our days were accompanied by the whir of car engines, sirens and the deep bass of the boom cars. Eventually we became immune to the din.The traffic ebbed and flowed with the work schedules of the city's populace. And that was how we experienced it; we likened it to ocean waves and noticed it most when it was absent.
I tend to think my new even leafier acre is hushed and secluded from the common place commotion of the day. In fact it's a little too quiet. I welcome a little proof of life beyond the cul de sac. I was actually disappointed when the city muzzled the train whistle during night hours, a courtesy for the fancier folks in the new homes built along the tracks.
Then I had the chance to really hear my garden. It turns out that selective listening isn't just limited to dogs and toddlers. Truth is my garden is quite cacophonous. I just wasn't paying attention.
In an exercise meant to broaden the scope of my original garden blog, I put together three basic and altogether amateur videos with a Flip Camera featuring favorite plant profiles. It was a one-woman project, with me acting as scriptwriter, photographer, narrator, host, editor and producer.
Imagine my surprise when I downloaded my first efforts; they were not only filled with the rumble of planes, trains and automobiles, but leafblowers and lawnmowers that I hadn't detected. And here I thought I only heard birdsong and babbling water when I wandered among my plants. I was obviously oblivious to the racket that reaches my little nook by the woods.
Talk about tuning it out.
Between the roar of machinery I found an earful worth noting. Hark, the two-toned whine by the rugosa roses, there I discovered a bumblebee and a honeybee fighting over the last blossom left in the fall garden. I think I finally learned the difference between the dry crackling of the constant scamper of the squirrels and the stealthy steps of the deer behind the buckthorn screen. I still can't decode the slow and rhythmic clicking, perhaps an insect?
