As I lay in bed drifting off to sleep the other night, I became aware of sounds that I hadn’t heard for ages. With torrential rain bringing cooler evenings this week, we’ve dispensed with fans and air-con, and once again thrown doors and windows open to the world.
And in through the bedroom window came the trilling of crickets in the grass, the buzzing of cicadas in the trees, and the croaking of frogs from the dark water in the rice fields. I only hear these very briefly if I walk home from work late in the evening, and even then, traffic often drowns it out.
But that night, with all the windows open and everything switched off, I slipped into a restful sleep in harmony with my surroundings, instead of despite them.
I wondered when had I last done nothing but listen to these sounds. Not listening while walking, or while reading, or while doing anything else. Just listening. And I realised it had been a long, long time.
And when I awoke, it wasn’t with a desire for ‘five more minutes’. Not that I leapt out of bed, I never have. But it at least started without the usual mind-fog.
As I sat with my breakfast, it started to rain again. So I slid open the doors and listened to that.