Ears
On sound, listening, and vibration
I hear the hum of the gentle bellows, and immediately feel it in my chest. My whole body vibrates, and my eyes tear up - something they will continue to do, every time.
It’s as if my heart is trying to beat bigger, like there is something it needs to say.
There is so much it needs to say.
But instead of my speaking or singing or making a sound, I feel my eyes start leaking.
Moments before, I asked my teacher what I should do when I get a lump in my throat and can’t sing. Isn’t singing the whole point of chanting? I wondered.
His answer was so generous, so patient: “Just let yourself listen,” he said. “Chant silently. No one else needs to hear it but you.”
Now, I am chanting silently, or, I am letting my heart chant for me. There are no words to this chant, just vibration. Just ripples. Just a heart, trying to expand.
I place my hands on my chest and start to breathe more deeply. The sound has become a feeling, and the feeling has become a rhythm. As I sit, feeling, I wonder if maybe my ears are simply two tiny doors, two delicate portals into a world where the senses are not separate, but integrated; a world where hearing becomes feeling.
After a few moments, the shuddering quiets, and I start to hum. I hum until my throat relaxes and my eyes are not so leaky. The bellows continue to turn air into song, and my teacher continues to sing, knowing that I will join him when I’m ready, or maybe knowing that I already have, in some way.
When my mouth opens, I do not hear my voice as much as I feel it. There is nothing between the inner and outer sounds, nothing to block, nothing to snag or push against. This is how I imagine the greatest singers feel: in awe of the sound that comes out when they stop trying so hard. This reminds me that I do not need to try to feel; all I need to do is soften and uncover.
A year later, I am in Mexico with my own students. We sit in a circle, and I am now the one making sounds - sounds that I hope my students do not hear as much as feel.
I tell them they do not have to sing, and that they can simply listen, feel, resonate. I tell them that if their throats become lumpy and their eyes start to leak, this is okay. Then I look down at my hands and at my instrument, because if I look at them any longer, my own eyes will leak again. I let my hands start playing.
As we sing, I feel the space between and around us flutter, and I think of the Sanskrit word, spanda, or divine vibration. It is not a vibration that we create, but a vibration that we allow ourselves to feel. As I think about this, I wonder if there is anything that we actually create, or if it is all simply allowing, uncovering, feeling, listening… Maybe the effort rests in choosing what we listen to?
I used to be afraid of losing my hearing. I thought that, without this sense, I would no longer be able to listen to music, to play instruments, to sing. I know now that this is ridiculous, and that there are many musicians and composers who cannot hear in the traditional sense; but this does not mean they cannot tune into vibrations. Perhaps our senses are only as useful as our attention allows them to be. Certainly, there are many people who can hear, who can feel, who can smell or taste or see, but simply choose not to. Maybe this is what I am actually afraid of: that I will lose my attention.
When the chant ends and my hands rest into my lap, there is a moment of silence. Then, there is a moment when I realize that the silence is not silence after all - that the sound I was paying attention to has simply quieted, allowing space for other things to resonate.
I notice the vibration in my body first.
Then I notice the birds.
I notice the sound of my students, breathing.
I notice the wind, so quiet, so gentle.
I notice the feeling of the ground underneath me, and remember that it is the same ground that is underneath everyone.
I notice my throat lumping, and my eyes welling up.
Part of me wants to stay in this space forever. The space where one vibration dissolves, and, because of this dissolution, we notice the subtler, quieter vibrations that have been here all along.
Another part of me cannot wait to sing again.
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