The ticking of the clock is truly mysterious; as I listen, it fades in and out of my attention. When it is gone, it’s disappeared. But when it returns and falls upon my ears, it has the pressing mysterious immediacy of all time itself. Outside my window, a quiet miracle. The long drawn shrill whistle of a night insect, punctuated by a throbbing powerful insistent rhythm. The window frames creak ever so faintly, releasing the heat of the day. No wind, nothing stirring. Far away, the muted roar of a truck on the highway, so difficult to listen to, yet so complex in its nuanced expression. Layered on top of that is a gecko’s call, like purple light projected on yellow. A human cry floats through the window, a call from another universe.
We hardly listen to anything. Our minds are so busy. We label a sound and move away from it, seeking a new sensation. But in deep listening, our minds are revealed to us in all their noise and confusion. In refusing to move away from this moment, with all its joy and suffering, we can perhaps find freedom and peace.