Austin — I get the idea to play with silence in my singing practice today, which turns up my ear volume. As I’m slipping on my leather sandals, I hear a scratchy sound on the living room floor and catch, out of the corner of my eye, a tiny gecko dragging a leaf on his tail, the leaf amplifying his presence 100 times. Would I have heard him otherwise? Now he’s under my red upholstered chair. I lift it and cover him in an Ikea glass for transport outside. I heard you, my little bug eater.
I sit on the floor of the studio and start by just listening. It comes in layers. Computer hum. Surging garbage truck, a cheeping bird, then a cawing one. The collective hum of it all.
I sing a phrase. Then I listen again, and notice there is a small transition in awareness from the singing to the hearing, like I’m hearing less while I’m singing and need tune back in after. Each time I stop singing, the world fades back in. I continue this pattern.
Then I try to keep the same quality of hearing while I’m singing that I have when I’m quiet, which dials me quickly into the moment, right on the edge of what sound is next. I lose my mind for moments, swimming in just this experience of sound and silence. I decide to hear more today.