I live in the middle of a bustling city: home to nearly four centuries of colonial history, more than 60 colleges and universities, thousands of residents from all over the world. Boston is a geographically compact city by American standards, but it’s still bigger and louder and more diverse than the West Texas towns where I grew up and spent my young adulthood. My neighborhood of Eastie is home to more than 40,000 people, and the airport lies a mere half mile from my front door.
When I moved here, I had to get used to the planes: normally they fly overhead so frequently that they form a kind of constant background noise. There are also buses and cars, delivery trucks rumbling through the shipyard, families out for a walk or scooter ride, parents walking their children to school. My neighborhood has a lot of dogs, and some days it’s like the Twilight Bark in the park near my house: one of them has something to say, and the others take it up like a canine game of telephone.
One of the most noticeable changes from the quarantine, so far, is the quiet.
The planes are still flying, but there are so few of them now that I can hear each one distinctly, as it flies overhead. There are no school buses, no kids walking to school in the mornings (though the afternoon walks and scooter rides are still happening, to save the parents’ sanity). The city buses and car traffic have settled down considerably. And sometimes, it’s so quiet that you can hear the church bells.
There are other sounds, both inside and out: the ticking clock in my kitchen, the crackle and hiss of the old radiators in my apartment, the tall white masts clanking gently in the shipyard down the hill. Sometimes I can hear the wind howling through the tree branches, whipping around corners. If I’m lucky, I hear children’s laughter and those barking dogs from the parks on either side of my house: a reminder that we’re all still here, even now. And the birds – blissfully unaware of everything except the springtime – are holding their own conversations, which are particularly noticeable these days.
In the absence of so much city noise, we can hear some things more clearly, and although the quiet also unnerves me a little, I’m trying to listen.
What are you hearing these days, where you are? I’d love to know, if you’d like to share.
cakes, tea and dreams 
Cheers to Boston!
I’m about 1.5 hrs north of Boston, depending on who’s driving. I am hearing the birds, thank God (as you say, always they bird along like they were born to it!) and the yappy little dog who goes past in a car every day these past few years — at first I thought he was just barking at MY house, like, gee, I wonder what toggles that. Duh. 🙂 It’s very weird to not hear kids, but I’m loving the quiet of lessened traffic noises (uh, except for the antsy motorcyclists who’ve just hauled out their bikes from the garages! I almost envy them). ❤
Oh, and “hear the church bells” and “tall white masts clanking gently” — I’m there. You write so beautifully.
Thank you so much.
Lovely photo of the marina. We also live under a flight path in the middle of a bustling city, there’s less aeroplanes and less cars passing by but I’m finding it a bit eerie rather than peaceful. ☺️
Yes, it’s a bit strange.
As I sat down to enjoy a cup of tea my 65 lb hound decided he need a snuggle. I hear snoring. And the birds outside. Peaceful. Soporific.
Love that.
I am in NY, on Long Island, and I feel like I’m hearing ambulances more often, though maybe I’m just more aware of them now. My elderly neighbor upstairs has news on the tv from morning til night, so there is a steady hum of chatter filtering down into my apartment all the time. I hear the front door of my building buzzing with deliveries from food services and from Amazon. It’s all balanced out by what I see everyday: Spring marching forward and beautiful signs of life everywhere.
I love all your stories from quarantine reflections, this one particularly for all the beautiful details! Reading your blog reminds me of how it feels to walk down a darkening street at dusk, glancing in the lighted windows at other family’s worlds. There’s separateness but also a heart gladness that good food and laughter and small, daily rituals are happening in the homes all around me. It’s comforting just to know that the rhythms of life are something we’re all holding onto. Walks, tea, work, breath, holding and being held when we can.
I saw this poem today and wanted to share it:
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Daily” from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems
These shriveled seeds we plant,
corn kernel, dried bean,
poke into loosened soil,
cover over with measured fingertips
These T-shirts we fold into
perfect white squares
These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips
This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl
This bed whose covers I straighten
smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket
and nothing hangs out
This envelope I address
so the name balances like a cloud
in the center of sky
This page I type and retype
This table I dust till the scarred wood shines
This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again
like flags we share, a country so close
no one needs to name it
The days are nouns: touch them
The hands are churches that worship the world