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Meditating on Sound
From Yoga Journal, May 2004
By Richard Mahler
I have been a producer of radio programs since
high school, when I began my media career as
deejay Captain Kilowatt on a tiny Top 40 rock
station. For more than 30 years, I've spun
discs, edited interviews, and spoken into
microphones, eventually moving into the
gathering of news for public radio. Although
I've loved shaping music, voices, and sound
effects into compelling broadcasts, my work has
had an unanticipated side effect.
I've become more sensitive to noise than most
people I know. Thousands of hours spent in
soundproof studios with sophisticated audio
equipment no doubt contributes to my keen
awareness of the sea of vibrations through which
we swim. As a consequence, I'm a person who asks
waiters to lower music levels in restaurants and
who avoids blaring TVs in airport lounges. I
plug my ears when motorcycles roar by, I back
away from bawling children, and loud movies make
me cringe.
It's self-evident to me that our world is a
noisy place-and getting more so all the time.
Statistics confirm what my experience suggests,
that people so addicted to buzz that they are
hurt by the hubbub it generates. For example, a
survey of 64,000 Americans by the League for the
Hard of Hearing found that between 1982 and 2000
hearing loss increased from 15 percent to 60
percent in all age categories. While this
suggests a healthy strategy is to avoid
unnecessary noise, that's not always possible.
In my own adaptation to this reality, I've found
a way to transform uninvited sound into a
welcome benefit.
Once a curse, my aural acuity has become a
valuable gift in my meditation practice. I now
use non-judgmental hearing as a focal point for
attentive, moment-to-moment perception. I let
urban sound-from the snarl of lawnmowers to the
honking of car horns-play a role similar to that
of breath, emotion, thought, or body sensation
when I seek what Vipassana meditation teacher
Christina Feldman calls "one-pointed
awareness."
In a 1999 dharma talk at the Barre Center for
Buddhist Studies, summarized in the Center's
newsletter, Feldman described a transformation
that may occur when one concentrates on a single
object of attention, such as sound. The practice
of deliberate focus, she noted, "challenges
our lifelong habits of distractedness and
grasping. [Yet] despite our intention to apply
and sustain one-pointedness, the mind continues
to regurgitate its habitual patterns and become
lost in its own busy-ness."
Thus, as we allow sounds to flow unobstructed
through our consciousness-without getting drawn
into analysis, judgment, and preference-we can
become more skillful in sitting calmly through
all sorts of stimuli that might otherwise
irritate, distract, or disturb us. Instead of
pushing away or getting angry at the clattering
helicopter overhead, for instance, we accept our
fleeting sensory perception knowing that, like a
passing memory or feeling, our response can be
chosen deliberately instead of automatically.
In my own practice-whether I'm at home, on a
meditation retreat, or sitting with my
sangha-the first step in using sound skillfully
is simply to notice what I am hearing. This
involves taking a thorough aural inventory. Just
as I bring crystalline awareness to the cycles
of breathing in my daily meditation practice, I
become attentive to what is bouncing off my
ears, including many sounds of which I am
usually unconscious. In slowing my mind to
listen, each ear acts like a giant antenna,
gathering impressions from near and far. I learn
immediately that every location has its own
"sound signature," as unique as a
fingerprint.
At home, I am greeted invariably by what's
familiar: a humming refrigerator, the whoosh of
cars on a nearby street, my ticking clock, a
hissing water heater, breeze-rustled leaves, and
the skittering of birds or squirrels on my roof.
In a nearby meditation hall, these sounds are
replaced by the drone of airplanes, whine of
sirens, buzz of florescent lamps, muffled voices
from an adjacent room, and the clang of pots in
a kitchen. Of course, I always encounter the
mundane sounds of the human body, from stomach
gurgling and nose sniffling to throat clearing
and itch scratching.
Here's a way to try this on your own. Choose a
time when you are unlikely to be interrupted for
at least 20 minutes, then assume your customary
meditation position. At first, direct awareness
to your breath, following the sensations in your
body that accompany the process of breathing.
This may encompass the passing of air through
the nostrils or the rise and fall of the chest.
After a few minutes, deliberately and mindfully
shift the focus to your sense of hearing.
Resisting the urge to "name" or
"get involved" with them, simply
review the various sounds circulating around
you. Notice how some noises arise and disappear
rapidly, or are heard only once, while others
are steady and recurring. Observe the different
qualities each sound exhibits, and the level of
your desire to associate a sound with a mental
picture, label, or emotion. As you tune in, see
if you can cultivate a quality of detached,
choiceless awareness that allows this auditory
melange to pass effortlessly through your
consciousness, like a cloud floating silently
through the sky. If you find your mind caught by
a particular noise, perhaps lapsing into a
reverie triggered by it, note the fact that this
has occurred and, without judgment, return to a
non-clinging awareness of sound. During your
first sitting, this "noting and letting
go" may occur many times. With practice,
however, the process should get easier and
perhaps become less frequent. The important
thing is to become conscious of your attachment
and develop the ability to release it.
Once you have experienced "sound
meditation" at home, experiment with it in
other locations, such as your workplace, health
club, school, or at a travel destination. If you
use public transportation, try this practice
while commuting. Urban noises may be distracting
initially, but over time many meditators have
told me that their relationships with sounds
that once annoyed them can shift dramatically. I
urge you to explore sound meditation on a
regular basis for at least a month or two before
drawing any conclusions about your own
experience. Consider adding it, like a yoga
pose, to your repertoire of the tools you use to
cultivate a deeper understanding of your own
consciousness.
This kind of attunement is a useful discipline
at any time, if only to sharpen one's sensory
awareness of the present moment. It takes
genuine effort to bring the fresh, alert
"beginner's mind" to what is common.
Yet I believe the alienation from our bodies and
our feeling that many of us suffer is a result,
in part, of a well-intended coping strategy.
Faced with an unending parade of provocations,
we tend to minimize our awareness of everyday
sounds unless something seems out of order. We
play various psychological tricks in order to
accomplish this, ignoring the ordinary in order
to minimize distraction and to reduce
irritability.
It's easy, of course, to convince ourselves that
many noises are obnoxious. I am sure each of us
can name some pet peeves. Mine include garbage
trucks at 5:30 a.m. and leaf-blowers during
breakfast. However, I've learned that the more
challenging path is not to measure the value of
such sounds, but rather to accept them in a true
spirit of equanimity. This does not mean
necessarily that we have neutral feelings about
such intrusions or would prefer not to hear
them, rather that we are not so invested in or
wed to our rote reactions that we cannot
separate ourselves from such responses.
The Buddha is said to have taught that the
foolish connect with the world primarily through
their physical senses, while the wise seek to
understand the nature of those connections. As
we grow wiser, some Buddhist scholars suggest,
we may become better able to maintain inner
stillness and serenity in the midst of whatever
confronts us, including unwanted sound. Instead
of being swept away by the raw energy of a noise
or by our identification with "what's wrong
with it," we learn to let those vibrations
wash over us without disruption. In this way, we
develop a "clear hearing" of our heart
and mind.
One of the most respected modern teachers of
yoga, B.K.S. Iyengar, echoed this sentiment when
he wrote in his classic book, "Light on
Yoga," that "the quiet space between
sensation and action is where we begin to
see." In silent sitting meditation (dhyana)
and observance (niyama), as in our posture
(asana) practice, we are challenged constantly
by what our hearing-and any other physical
sense-stirs within us. Bringing mindfulness and
restraint (yama) to our ears is like bringing
mindful attention to our breath, balance, and
musculature as we move through asanas. Both can
become vehicles for developing the
health-promoting quality of clear awareness and
letting go. Yoga uses the term parinamavada to
refer to the inherent acceptance of constant
change that parallels this mental state. Yet
such equanimity is not easily accessible within
any contemplative practice if sound functions as
a screen, irritant, or diversion.
The 13th-century Sufi mystic Jelaluddin Rumi
spoke to this human tendency in his poem,
"Only Breath," by advising that
"there is a way between voice and presence
where information flows. In disciplined silence
it opens. With wandering talk it closes."
Rumi could not have anticipated the modern Tower
of Babel that generates constant discord, but I
believe his injunction to listen attentively
would be repeated with even more emphasis if the
wise poet still walked-and listened-among us
today.
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