I told a friend many years ago that I didn’t like the sound of snow underfoot. But ever since I said that I’ve been trying to figure out why. The sound itself isn’t necessarily what offends. But then I was walking on the deck last night, in the snow, and it suddenly dawned on me. It’s just so loud. It doesn’t matter how gingerly I put my foot down, the crunch of snow is just so loud. There’s nothing I can do to alter that.
And it got me to thinking about sound in general. How I react to certain sounds. How even though I’m not a huge fan of living so close to Fort Carson, that I love the sound of the bombs in the background when they are playing war games.
How much I detest listening to my dogs drink water or lick their paws. That my biggest all time pet peeve is listening to someone chew with their mouth open. That one can kill a whole conversation for me.
Or that there is a very specific gunshot sound effect that brings a smile to my face every time I hear it. I love the sound of tires squealing and I love the sound of waves crashing on a beach, but I don’t really get the appeal of listening to a calm stream trickle down a mountain.
How much I love listening to insanely loud music or how much I love the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. Or that one of my most favorite sounds in the world is listening to someone laughing to themselves, especially when I’m not privy to the joke.
I don’t think it will ever cease to amaze me how much the sensual environment I am in affects me. That my senses can serve as catalyst for a perfect evening or executioner to the simplest of experiences.
How interesting it is that silence and deafening noise can bring me to the same soothing place of peace. That it’s the quality of the sound, not the quantity of it.
It’s all just a matter of perspective I suppose. Utterly subjective and, within that subjectivity, utterly subject to change.
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