Annoying Noises

Sitting in my outdoor tub on fall nights, after the summer's insects have either died out or are hibernating for the winter, it can get very quiet—especially on those nights when there is no wind. As I sink into my reverie at those quieting times, I find that my hearing extends farther and farther into the distance. We live in a very remote area, so there are minimal traffic sounds—maybe an occasional car chugging up a distant hill, but then it all settles blessedly back into silence.

On these occasions I enjoy picking up on sounds of wildlife, far off in the woods. Whippoorwills call out in the summer night air, various insects sing out in late summer, owls add their periodic hoot, distant foxes and coyotes yip at the moon. All of their sounds are often accompanied by the gurgling creek. On some nights my peace can be disturbed by a far off barking dog, but that intrusion is thankfully infrequent.

Tonight, however, despite the quiet, I’m hearing a periodic and persistent sound of some kind. It's rather distant and rather subtle, so it's hard for me to discern whether it's a wild animal or a yelping dog. It could be a coyote. Maybe even an evening bird? I am thankful that it does not seem to be a machine—their unwelcome noise is a constant annoying drone for me. I hear this sound briefly, every few minutes.

If the source of tonight's sound is indeed coming from wildlife, I will find myself both interested and curious, so I try to tune into it and see if I can figure what critter may be calling out. Am I listening to an utterance from an animal that may be new to me, or a variation on a call from one that I've heard before? Maybe I can learn something new about Nature's critters that inhabit or visit these woods. If that’s the case, I'm tuned in and engrossed. 

But if the sound I'm hearing is coming from either human activity, or a persistent dog, I will feel irritated. Why do I greet wild animal sounds with curiosity and even pleasure, while I consider civilization's sounds to be annoying?

I moved out here in the country over three decades ago, with the objective of getting in close touch with Nature, and to distance myself from what I came to view as an abundance of urban insanity. I have reveled in this natural environment ever since. The plants and animals surrounding me out here have had millions of years to settle into an exquisite balance and beauty. I feel graced to have become immersed in their world and to become increasingly familiar and knowledgeable with its workings. All these critters and plants naturally belong here, and I feel privileged to share their world.

Humans, however, are the new kid on the rural block. We are largely a disturbance—we upset that balance. We make too much noise, pollute our surroundings, and use our power to dominate. We bring our dogs with us and either fence them or tie them outside. Left alone and bored, they bark incessantly. Sitting in my tub in tonight’s evening's hush, I am disturbed by that dog, while its “owner” likely sits indoors, planted in front of a blaring TV—oblivious to the unhappy dog's howls.

On this night, I eventually decide that I'm not hearing a coyote, but a monotonous, ceaseless dog. So I'll truncate my bath, hoping that the next tub soaking may be longer, accompanied by only Nature's songs.

Silence Stimulates

I live in a very rural area, that experiences minimal traffic noise or other urban disturbances. In fact, many friends consider it to be the far-out boonies. I need the tranquility. Over the last few decades researchers have documented many ill effects that society's noise has on people. Epidemiologists have shown a high correlation between noise and high blood pressure, heart disease, sleep loss, and immune system damage. Five years ago the UN's World Health Organization found that some 340 million Europeans (a bit more than the population of the US) annually lose over a million years of healthy life, due to noise. That's one hell of a toll!

Noise pollution has been recognized for a couple of generations as having a deleterious impact on human health and well being. As a person who built a career on studying the mechanics of noise reduction, I'm not at all surprised at the negative impact of noise on people. It's what my career was all about! It's also a major reason why I took leave of the urban life three decades ago and sought refuge and a healthier (and quieter) life in the woods of Appalachia.

I sought solace in the quiet I found out here. I avoid noisy machines—rototillers, tractors, and other small engine devices—in favor of doing as much by hand as possible. It is not only cheaper and more peaceful, but gives my body the exercise that it needs.

I have written before on this blog about my desire for tranquility and solitude. In quiet moments I seek calmness, I tune into inner thoughts, I can even come to sense the oneness of existence. I have found quiet to be soothing and healing—especially knowing that noise is unhealthy. The root of the word noise is the Latin word nausea, meaning “seasickness.” (The Latin word naus means “ship.”)

But that reasoning suggests that quiet (or silence) is primarily an escape from something. It's replacing a “thing” with “no thing.” Quiet, in this sense, is just an absence of noise; silence is just the lack of sound. Is silence really just a negative entity?

The key here is what's going on in the brain—our ultimate sensory response either to noise or quietness. The science of brain scans has exploded in recent years and is providing lots of evidence of what's going on in the brain, as it responds to various sensory inputs. Some recent research is showing that activity in the brain is stimulated by silence, just as much as when we hear sounds. A certain network of neurons lights up when sounds are heard, but quite a different set of neurons fires when quiet ensues. So the brain is just as active when quiet prevails. To the brain, silence is not a negative entity. Mental work is happening then too.

These recent findings fuel my need for quiet even more. Where silence once represented an escape from a clamorous world for me, I have come to see that it's not an escape from, but a coming to something: a state wherein my brain stays engaged—but no longer in an unpleasant way. It's now active in an agreeable and even creative way. In fact, it's doing the healthy work of silence. As Paul Simon wrote over 50 years ago,

              And the vision that was planted in my brain

             Still remains

             Within the sound of silence.

Silent Spaces—Part 2

In my noise-reduction career I had many opportunities to see that most machines generate far more noise than necessary. When these machines first were designed, noise was not a priority, so it was therefore pretty much ignored. Thus my colleagues and I were able to bring about dramatic reductions in noise levels of the machines that we studied. When manufacturers were shown how to quiet their products, they usually were pleasantly surprised and even quite willing to incorporate our suggestions (especially those who made the noisiest machines and who sensed that the EPA would soon come knocking).

Indeed, those were the heady days. We noise acousticians were excited about the prospect of a future freer of humanity’s din. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Other priorities interfered—the oil shortage shifted priorities in another direction. Shortly after Reagan came to office, EPA’s office of Noise Abatement and Control was first gutted of capable personnel and then closed down in the early 80s. I guess the reversal of the noise tide contributed to my hanging up my sound level meter and migrating to the quieter rural Shenandoah Valley.

Since setting down roots here some 30 years ago, I have come even more to treasure the quietude that surrounds me. But it’s all relative. It may be far quieter here than in the city, but one becomes more sensitive and I find that interfering noise is still far too common for me. In the city I expected it to be noisy, while out here I expect it to be quiet—but that’s not always the case. When I recline in my outdoor tub in the evenings, I especially treasure the quiet. I find airplanes and distant barking dogs irritating. I also am aware that, without the lower background noise around here, I’d not even hear these disturbances.

Despite my annoyance with noise, I am aware that without the much quieter environment that I now live in, I’d miss so many precious aural events. The gentle breeze drifting across the hollows would be missed. The chatter of a distant squirrel or the distant response of an owl to a local’s call would fade into background chatter. I’d never hear the soft swish of the titmouse’s wings, as it glides down to the feeder. These are hushed happenings I’d otherwise miss. I love them.

Like the light pollution that prevents city dwellers from seeing but a few of the brightest stars and keeps them ignorant of the 4000 or so stars they would otherwise see in a dark country sky, incessant noise can inure us to these irritants and disguise the subtle delights of nature. Until that masking visual and aural interference is reduced, we don’t know what we are missing. The loss is tragic. I am deeply grateful that I can see and hear what my rural site allows.

Silent Spaces—Part 1

Last year I read a new book that struck a resonant chord within me. Gordon Hempton and John Grossman wrote One Square Inch of Silence in an attempt to wake people up to the fact that our auditory environment is badly polluted. Most everyone knows that cities are noisy places. Music, traffic, and most every human activity are overly loud. Our ears are assaulted by TV, by the neighbor’s yard machines, by passing traffic, and by constant airplane flights to and from nearby airports.

Hempton and Grossman focused on the incessant human-made noise in the wilderness. Hempton has scoured the country looking for really quiet locations—finding that they are virtually nonexistent. Even the most remote corners of our national parks are not free of the intrusive noise of human activity. Snowmobiles and four-wheel machines invade backcountry. Heavy airplane traffic rains down its continuous noise upon us. Even the most isolated corners get violated several times every hour with overflights. The noise of a jet at 35,000 feet can be heard scores of miles away.

In an attempt to dramatize the situation, Hempton has found a tiny patch of land—one square inch in area—that is, as far as he can tell, the most noise-free spot in the country. He’s trekked into many remote locations with sound level meter in hand and ears at alert, seeking pristine quiet locations.

Hempton’s quietest spot is a one square inch that he found in the Olympic National Park on Washington state’s Olympic Peninsula. He lives nearby and often hikes in, to savor the (near) silence in that little patch. Trying to raise awareness of the problem, he drove across country a couple of years ago in an old VW microbus—ending up in the other Washington (D.C.), to meet government officials and try to convince them to take action to lower the volume. It remains to be seen whether or not they heard him. (Is that a pun?)

When I read this book, the location from which the resonant chord resounded in my soul was created during my former career in acoustics. My focus in those days was to investigate how machines generated excessive noise and to conduct experiments to demonstrate how to quiet them. It was the heady days of the late ‘60s and early ‘70s—in wake of the Noise Control Act, which charged EPA with the mission of reducing noise pollution. (EPA was also enjoined with reducing air and water pollution.)

Studies showed that noise is far more than an intrusive, unpleasant thing. It’s a health issue—and that’s what got EPA going. Exposure to loud noise can damage the delicate hearing process. But noise is also a psychological problem. It can disorient us (and animals even more), create emotional and physical stress, and interfere with sleep.

More noise next time…

Urban Noise, Rural Quiet

I’ve recently read two books that described the riches of rural “auralscapes”—all the wonderful sounds that one can hear when immersed in quiet surroundings. My former life was in acoustics (noise control) so I have a predilection for hushed environments. Having lived in the quiet woods for 25 years now, I’ve come to treasure the serenity it offers.

There are two terms that are often used to describe auralscapes: loud and noise. Each represents very different things to different people. One person’s loud is another’s quiet. One person’s noise is another’s music. The contrasts become quite stark for those who live in urban or in rural environments.

In cities manmade noise is both constant and dominant. I call it manmade “noise”; an urban dweller often hardly notices it. The continual din of traffic, airplanes, and countless machines numbs one’s hearing. The blare of loudspeakers and similar loud sounds can even damage one’s ears and threaten health by creating stress. City dwellers can lose contact with subtle sounds, just as they have little concept of what might be seen in a dark sky.

A rural auralscape can be far quieter. Surrounded by the stillness, one begins to hear many faint sounds that are otherwise elusive. Depending on the local activity level of background sound like insects and the wind, one can hear animal calls from a long distance away in the woods. The scurrying of little critters in the underbrush may be discerned. The wing beats of a bird can be heard. The trickle of the creek is delightful to listen to. It is not silence; it is the wonder of quietness.

Of course, there is a cost to living in a quiet rural auralscape and being treated to all the wonderful sounds: one becomes much more sensitive to intrusive noise. The snarl of a small plane—not even heard in the city—can be very intrusive out here. One loud motorcycle invades your world for several minutes, since you can hear it several miles away. Numerous studies of human physiological response to noise have shown that we can tune out a constant drone far easier than an intermittent intruder. (In a similar way, loud and flashy TV commercials cleverly penetrate our sensory defenses.)

In my quiet haven in the woods I thrill to all the wonderful sounds of nature, and flinch from the noise of humans. The flinching can be very irritating, but the quiet rewards outweigh the noisy intrusions.