There are mornings behind the puddle when I realize how much noise there is in quiet.
The birds certainly aren’t quiet. Neither are the cicadas, especially this time of year. There may be geese talking to one another, a squirrel announcing an opinion from somewhere in the trees, the fountain running beside the patio, and every now and again the sound of a car passing on Lake Shore Drive.
Summer sounds different now than it did even a month ago.
I don’t know that I would have noticed that before.
For most of my life, listening meant listening for something. A person speaking. A phone ringing. Someone needing an answer. A problem that needed solving.
Sitting behind the puddle has taught me another kind of listening.
The kind where I don’t need to respond.
I can hear something without needing to identify it. I don’t have to know which bird is making which sound or what insect is responsible for the almost deafening hum coming from the trees. I don’t even have to decide whether I like every sound I hear.
I can just listen.
And when I do, I begin to notice that the landscape has its own voice.
Spring sounded like arrival. There were new birds to discover, babies appearing, and what felt like something different every time I looked outside.
Summer has become fuller and louder, but somehow more familiar. The babies are growing. Some visitors don’t come as often. Others have settled into routines that I have learned to recognize.
Maybe people have seasons that sound different, too.
There are seasons filled with questions and beginnings. Seasons that are loud and demanding. Seasons when everyone seems to need something from us.
And maybe there are seasons when our job isn’t to answer at all.
Maybe sometimes our job is simply to listen long enough to hear what has been there all along.
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