November Fifth; For Which Sound am I Thankful

Oh this list.
 For which sound, one sound, that I am thankful. The one who created this list, I wonder if they have any concept of the degree of difficulty this list holds. To choose one out of many, as a favorite if you will, when the many have such great purpose and joy in their depths.

 A sound that I miss, is the sound of my late husband’s voice. I do still have the voice mail message on the phone, but that isn’t the same. I miss hearing him call my name, asking for a cup of coffee. I miss having him ask me to join him sitting on the front porch and watching nothing happen. One day, I will hear it again.

 But sounds that I am still blessed to hear are abundant.

The sound of children laughing.Whether it is the kids at church in nursery or family spending time just being kids. To hear them call to me to tell me all the latest news.

My son’s voice as he talks with me. Whether he is explaining something or sharing events. Even when, after completing a repair job he does a wonderful imitation of how his dad would have acted during the process. His dad was not a handy man, not patient. 

The sound of my parent’s voices as they talk. Dad trying to annoy and tease, mom trying to be strong and bear the teasing, no matter who is the target. Dad asking for help with this or that and mom just wanting to have a conversation. To share a memory or make a plan.

 Human voices, no matter the age. Speaking for many reasons. To join together in understanding.

Then there is the sound of nature.

 To open the windows and listen. At different times I can hear the various birds, the squirrel chattering in the trees or on the ground searching through the leaves. In the summer I can hear the bullfrog down at the pond. The coyote calling is an eerie sound that sends chills up my spine, but it is still a call of nature. Then to actually get out and walk deep into the woods where man made sound becomes muted and nature takes over. The same sounds as from my window, but more clear. To hear a deer blow up close then turn and run, to hear the call of a hawk as it flies overhead, gives one a better understanding. Knowing better, how it must have felt to be here when the country was young and undisturbed. To listen to the creek as the water splashes against the rocks as it moves along. Healing sounds.

But  sounds created by man, are not all bad. The sounds of traffic meaning people are moving, goods are moving, life is going on. The sounds of hammering, that things are being built. Machinery humming, products are being created. People are working. The sirens of emergency vehicles as they rush to the aid of someone in need. The sounds of a fishing line being cast, boat paddles moving in and out of the water, the sound of bike tires as they pass on a track. The sound of cheering at a sporting event. The explosions of fireworks, shot high into the air.  People are out, living life and enjoying events.

Music, emotion put to sound.

 How does one choose, one sound? That very first cry of a new born baby? The very first time someone says, I love you? The first hike through a forest and hearing an eagle call? The first notes of a favorite song? How do you choose?

Whether I am able to choose a favorite or not, I am thankful that I am able to hear. While one born deaf has no concept of what they are missing, I’m sure those who once were able to hear, but have lost the ability miss it terribly. To see things happening around them,while they sit in a silent or muffled world, would be to me, a form of torture. I won’t attempt to choose a favorite, I will remain thankful for sound in general and the ability to hear it all.

About rebecca s revels

A writer, a photographer, a cancer survivor. An adventurer of the mild kind, a lover of the simple pleasures such as long walks and chocolate. A Christian unashamed of my faith and a friend who is dependable and will encourage readily. Author of three self published books with more waiting to find their way to paper. An advocate of good things, a fighter against wrongs.
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