The other night as I was walking down the street to pick up
a few supplies from the supermarket, with the warm and balmy evening wrapping
each individual in it’s all embracing reach, the sounds of the crickets
chirruping in the grass took me back those many, MANY years to the summers of
my childhood (and I AM talking about the early years!) Is there anyone else out
there who used to roll around on the lawn in that half an hour before sunset
(this was in the peak of summer, and daylight savings…and usually because we
were told to either play outside or go to bed!), before taking up the challenge
of trying to find the noisy black insects (they are, technically, insects,
right?).
It was like they could teleport from one spot to another,
because no sooner did you get to where the noise was, then it would stop, but a
few feet away, it would start up. How could they move that swiftly and how did
they manage to always be in front of you? No matter how intently we would
search through the kikuyu grass, they could never be discovered beneath the
tightly woven root system and resilient green foliage. Even if we did somehow
manage to sneak up on them, and capture their supposed location in cupped
hands, they could not be found…or were they just being very still, very quiet,
and blending their dark bodies in amongst the grass’ shadows and the darkness
of the dirt from which it drew it’s nourishment.
As I continued to walk, and listen to the sounds of the
street sporadically, chaotically, being orchestrated out into the world, it
challenged me to actually listen to the noises, to not only identify them, but
to also compare them and see what they reminded me of: what safety deposit box
did they unlock in the vault of my mind? There was the screeching noise which
could have been the restless and disturbed call of bats in the night, but was
really a creative householder cutting up a polystyrene box for some other
purpose. There was the rattle and clang, jangle and clunk of machinery that
could have been either the carry-all behind the tractor, desperate in its
attempt at the hula dance to dislodge us kids as we helped Dad feed the hay out
to the cows and sheep; or it could have been the harrow rattling like a
disturbed skeleton behind the same tractor as it breathed life into the
paddock, but it was the night-time works of railway workers replacing the
sleepers on a stretch of track.
So next time you happen to be walking somewhere be it
leisurely or with haste, remember to take some time. Not only should you stop
and smell the roses, but listen to what’s happening around you (if you can hear
over the blare of beats emanating through the buds of your music player) and
see what they remind you of, and where (and when) do they take you. Enjoy the
trip!
