I come to these pages this final morning of a six-week study1 in desert solitude bathed in a silence so present, so intimate, it comes as a whispering aliveness – as close as the breath itself. It is fragranced, this silence, and I become occupied by it.
I hear of human activity only that of my own movements – this body’s breath, the pulse singing a melody the ears knew long before the eyes ever saw the light of day. I am as still as my living body can be.
Horizons of sound come close. First the faint hush of a slight breeze over water. Then a heron’s wings pressing against air – the murmur of tension between falling and flying. A few grebes slip into the water, beak first, their frolic adding spry notes to this morning’s song. When they dive, ripples gurgle then hush again, layering rhythm over and under what subtle sound surrounds them already. Gulls gather at the water’s edge as if they have been called by the rising sun, bringing not orations but the sounds of their bodies softly spl…