Energy Patterns of Sounds: How to Consciously Tune In and Tune Out

while we remain as observers

I looked into her eyes, holding the pacifier. Her hands up, trying to grab something in the air. Cooing, occasional grunting when the pacifier fell out of her mouth. I was amazed by how a newborn invites me to her world of sounds.

Later that week, a mother told me how she tuned into the birds chirping outside her house and noticed the temperature changes in Rotterdam. Her sharing, along with the baby visit, sparked my search for sounds this week.

One morning I took down my headphones—my commute companion when I drop my son off at school. My ears were not used to the sounds of traffic. They had a hasty pace, like squashed red bulls scrambling across the street in the wind. The screeching of the tires seemed to say, ‘the world would stop turning without me. Let me pass.’ I stood still and put my headphones back on. I understood why my husband felt nervous when he came back from a walk in the mountains. He said: “ For some reason, I want to buy stuff when I hear some sounds in the city.”

Maybe the city whispered, ‘Keep buying, keep buying!’”

I needed a barrier to filter out the city sounds. I needed sounds that calm and soothe my nerves. On weekends, I would drop by the polder nearby just to take a stroll and throw pebbles into the water with my son. It was a feast to the ears! We would experiment with one at a time or several at a time, throw far or close. If we were lucky, a group of wild ducks would whoosh overhead, flapping their wings to the other side. We would freeze, pausing for the “dark clouds” flying toward the sunset. Those sounds showed us to step back and just be one with nature.

I always loved the sound of a pencil scribbling on paper, pouring out my thoughts, along with the sound of the clock ticking at midnight. Occasionally, if I hold my breath and listen attentively, my apartment breathes out a specific sound— quiet, steady and relaxing. Unlike the sounds of an army of mice partying on the roof at my grandparents’ house. When I was a child, I was often worried that they would climb onto my bed and eat my face. All those sleepless nights listening to the snoring of my grandma.

My son’s giggling would bring me to the present moment, so does his screaming. One day I told him to stop screaming when he didn’t get his way. Then a space opened in me and a question emerged: “ What was it about his screams that irritated me so much?" It has its own frequency of sound, not forceful but curious. You had to squint your eyes in the sun and look what is happening that kind of curious.

“Because it annoys me terribly. My chest, stomach and even my throat tighten.”

“So, why?” The sound was persistent but patient.

I had to close my eyes to escape the burning questions.

“ I got punished to scream when I was a child. I had to behave. Screaming for a girl was not decent. People frowned when I was loud.”

An ‘aha’ moment! And so, I frowned.

I did the same thing and told him to stop. But the truth is, everybody needs a good screaming. The sound of screaming delivers a message that needs to be seen and felt.

He is here to guide me from the unspoken pain of the past—a past of silence. His giggles bring me back to life; it’s his way of soothing the scarred wounds. When loneliness crept up on me one night, he suddenly asked me if I would love to hear him sing.

“ Zeememin, zeememin, zwemt in de zee. ( Mermaid, mermaid, swims in the sea)

Jij bent niet alleen, mama! ( You are not alone, mama)

He sang ‘mama’ out loud. I noticed he had added ‘mama’ to the lyrics.

Jij bent niet alleen, mama! ( You are not alone, mama)

He waved his hands in the air.

Jij bent niet alleen, mama! ( You are not alone, mama)

Jij bent niet alleen, mama! ( You are not alone, mama)

He waved and closed his eyes. I didn’t know it then, but his voice was breaking through my walls, reaching into the part of me that was grieving.

Wij gaan samen zwemmen!” ( we are swimming together!)

I was jolted back to the present when he finished singing. He was trying to comfort me when I kept my feeling of the past deep inside. He sang 'mama' four times, gently waking me up, reminding me not to drown in the past.

I was glad that a part of me was following the messages he tried to communicate. I was listening to the song, but more to the energy behind the sound. It went through my body and reached my heart.

It got me thinking: If we listen not to the words, but to the sound energy behind, we might feel less isolated and less inclined to grab onto consuming, overpowering forces. We will learn how to truly listen.

The cooing, chirping, whooshing, plonking, flapping, scribbling, giggling, and screaming. The world is open for human beings to connect so that we can feel whole and healed again.

Which sounds are you tuning in these days to feel connected?

The sound of tearing open a sourdough bread makes me happy.