In early August, I woke up in a sleeping bag, a couple thousand feet above sea level. It was 6:15 a.m. and fully light out. A fly that had gotten caught in our tent whined in my ear, so I pulled my beanie down a bit when it zipped by. Runar and Steve were fast asleep next to me, Ezra was out in his hammock a few yards away, and I realized I had the morning to myself, at least for now.
It was slightly too warm for dew – something I’d looked forward to, but was ultimately relieved to slip my feet into dry shoes. Evergreens rose around our spot and as the air warmed, it vibrated with life. Sun spilled onto the dried-out campfire pit. Nighttime felt faraway, even at this hour, in the same way that the warmth of late spring melts the memories of shivering in the winter. It made me think about the cycles of the natural world that would happen whether we’re here or not, the roundness of the day, of the seasons, of the in-and-out of the ocean that I’d sat next to all summer.
The quiet of that morning seeped into me and stayed there. I’ve dropped into this specific moment a lot this past month, which tested my nervous system’s limits. My days felt extra loud throughout September. My body hummed with stress, from work, from life’s emotional demands, and from pure exhaustion of balancing those two. I felt taut and heavy. Needing to drive in Los Angeles was no help. I was thinking a lot about transitions, fresh starts, and change. Maybe subconsciously, my body was remembering the new school years that structured pretty much every year of my life, and the adjustments that would come with that. I’m still feeling the end to those first days.
But I’ve also thought a lot about quiet, and what that means. How much of it we need, in what forms. My sweet and bright LA room, while calm, absorbs the sounds of traffic because of its location on a busy road. I sleep with earplugs and an eye mask to dull my senses, and both help me get a little more rest than I definitely would otherwise. But this August morning in Tahoe had a quiet that evaded silence, even stillness. The natural world is rarely still, even when we think it is, but it made me feel so. I think quiet can be carved, like the varying slices of the moon I watch on my commutes home from work. Fractions of peace.
As I’ve battled the monster of stress that comes with working in news, a daily onslaught of reminders that humans are bad and ‘here is the worst thing that’s ever happened,’ I’ve been wondering what quiet looks and feels like. Stress, the antithesis of peace for the purpose of this piece, looks like a muscle. The bunching up, tensing up is the easy part. It’s the kneading out, the relaxing of the muscle that takes more work.
I know that quiet is something where my senses feel awakened. Unlike the city life, where I plug my ears and darken my room and grasp at straws to dull my senses. I’d always thought there were beach people (me) and mountain people. But something about being at a higher elevation, my lungs expanding to grasp a bit more air that is closer to heavens, that brought me back to myself.
Reading:
“Mobility” by Lydia Kiesling
Listening:
“Field Trip,” WaPo’s brilliant new podcast series about the national parks. I was fortunate enough to help on the research brief for their episode on White Sands!
“Pharmacist” by Alvvays
“Gold” by Claud
Watching:
“Love is Blind” Season 5, obviously!