Singing to St Martin of Tours

The feast of St Martin of Tours, on November 11^th, is a pivot-point in the year, the end of the harvest season and a time of preparation for the Advent season. It was an occasion for processions (often, at least in later periods, with lanterns!), for almsgiving, and for renewal of spirit and devotional practice.

It was also tax time; paying your Martins penny or Martinizins (Martin-tithe) was a financial obligation that appears in numerous documents and charters of the time. When I say numerous, I mean that just at the Kloster of Mehrerau, for instance, at least 59 separate charters detail the Martinizins; across Vorarlberg, more than 891 charters require payments of one sort or another on that special day. (Thank you, monasterium.net, for the ability to do multi-term searches!)

In the context of a tertiary house like Thalbach in Bregenz in the 16^th century, Martin’s feast was a time for public devotion and renewal of spiritual commitements. They no doubt liked the story of how he used his sword to divide his cloak in half and share it with a beggar. As a soldier, he had been riding warm and comfortable on his horse through the sleet and snow, when he came upon a fallen man. Concerned, he cut his cloak in two and gave one part to the supine man. That evening, a vision came to him of Christ clothed in the cloak remnant; the beggar he had comforted had been Christ himself.

17th c Stained Glass image of St Martin at Wettingen, cc by Badener

The sisters were not without need of charity themselves, since food supplies were notoriously tight during this period; endowments did not yet fully cover the sisters’ needs. Here, then, was a saintly hero whose generosity might inspire the broader civic community to similarly share provisions. And, of course, the feasting of end-of-harvest season was a special reason for rejoicing. Roast goose was often a special treat on the day, and was associated with the tale the a goose had revealed his location when he was hiding to avoid appointment as bishop. Plus, the fruit of the vineyards, the year’s new wine, was often uncorked on Martinmas. Roast goose (Martinigansl) and new wine (Heuriger) remain Austrian favorites today. Many reasons to rejoice, indeed!

Thus it was when the Sisters of Thalbach took on the task of learning the Roman Breviary in 1595, adopting the Tridentine forms then newly mandated, they chose their first (and therefore forever notable) performance to be the Vespers of St Martin. Here’s a lovely performance of the antiphon, “Dixerunt discipuli,” from the Vespers service for St Martin:

The disciples said to blessed Martin: Why do you abandon us, father? Or to whom do you leave us desolate? For ravenous wolves will invade your flock. (Ps:Dixit dominus)

Martin’s disciples, realizing he is near death, plead with him not to leave them. The “ravenous wolves” are a metaphor for corrupt or heretical leaders who might harm the spiritual community once Martin, their protector and spiritual guide, has passed. Martin here serves as the pastor bonus, the good shepherd who safeguards his flock through his vigilance. His disciples’ lament highlights the saint’s transition from earthly protector to heavenly intercessor. In medieval retellings and liturgical commemorations, this scene reinforces Martin’s enduring care for the faithful even after death. His memoria continues to protect against those “wolves” through prayer and example.

As new singers, then, this office was a good choice of where to begin. The music for Vespers emphasized antiphons and psalmody. “Dixerunt discipuli” is a typical antiphon in the seventh mode, centered melodically on the fifth above G, with a narrow range. This would have been eminently singable for new singers. Moreover, the gentle neumatic layout, with two to five notes per syllable would have helped with their memorization. Invoking Martin as protector in their first celebration in a new-to-them practice of Latin chant devotions was no doubt an auspicious beginning for what was to be a two-year learning journey. But that is a story for another day.

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REFERENCES

• For a general overview of Martin’s cult, see Yossi Maurey, Medieval Music, Legend, and the Cult of St Martin: The Local Foundations of a Universal Saint (Cambridge University Press, 2014)
• For a review of the growth of the St Martin liturgical tradition in Italy, see Alejandro Enrique Planchart, “The Geography of Martinmas,” In Western Plainchant in the First Millennium (Routledge, 2003).
• A short but approachable article on Martinmas customs can be found in Shawn Tribeon, “Customs of Martinmas,” Liturgical Arts Journal, October 26, 2018, https://www.liturgicalartsjournal.com/2018/10/customs-of-martinmas.html

The Taylor Swifting of Chant Performance

If we believe that Hildegard von Bingen’s chant is monophonic, why introduce a drone? Why add orchestration, those evocative instrumental roulades that spin seductively around the modal home pitch as intro and as formal “breaks” from the plainness of plainchant – but lack any evidentiary basis in score, or word, or notated tradition? What is chant to us here in this post-2015 environment that it cannot be simple, or vocal, or unaccompanied?

Harpa Dei Choir (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNiRNiqzRsc)

St. Stanislav Girls’ Choir (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRCRQcgbWtA)

I ask not because it’s wrong – in fact, I find performances like those of the Harpa Dei Choir and that of the St. Stanislav Girls’ Choir (Helena Fojkar Zupančič, director) to be beautiful and compelling. Not authentic – not striving for some kind of Hildegard-informed sense of how the music should go – but nevertheless a compelling reading of the tune with its vocally surging lines where any “up” (often arrived at by leap) gets a counterbalancing descent, or at least some smaller response in a lower register. Hildegard’s play with ambitus and tessitura is well-displayed.

Yet part of me feels suckered by these performances. For the Harpa Dei performance, the gendered vocal shifts, the oooooo wooooo drones, the rubato; there’s a richness that almost calls for a palette cleanser afterwards. And for the lovely and compelling St Stanislav performance, yes, but… But so much twang on the drone; so many instrumental moments of disruption; the recorder as ethereal marker, but also as intrusion on the beauty of the singing. It would be easy to pick either of these performances out of a line-up. And yet they are in many ways typical of the examples I’ve been sampling as I looked for musical illustrations for class.

Why “all the everything”? Why is chant gussied up and ornamented here in our 21^st century world?

Maybe part of the answer lies in what our ears have come to crave. We live in a musical world where production is part of the storytelling, where even a single voice is rarely left alone. Taylor Swift’s vocal is never just Taylor Swift’s vocal. No, it’s reverberant, multi-tracked, shimmering with harmonic overtones and studio polish that make intimacy sound bigger. Our ears have become attuned to layers, to sonic depth as a marker of emotional authenticity. In that context, an unadorned chant feels exposed, almost too naked to believe in. So we orchestrate it. We wrap it in drones and strings and those warm and comforting ambient pads to make it “speak” in the language we’ve been taught to find moving. But in doing so, we reveal something about ourselves as listeners: that we can no longer trust simplicity, that we need resonance – literal and metaphorical – to feel that something is real.

By literal resonance, I mean those add-ins, some performed, some generated in production, that make a chant track “pop” when it comes up on your playlist. When chant is accompanied by a drone, by strings, or by an ambient pad (or a mix of all three, heaven forefend), it physically resonates in a richer, more complex way. We like that; it gives us “stuff to listen for.” We’ve got something to munch on. The music feels fuller, more present, more “real” – it fits our presumtive expectations.

In a world trained on layered, produced music, a single, unadorned line might feel too stark, too abstract to carry the weight of feeling or significance we expect. Adding accompaniment or sonic “padding” gives the chant a kind of interpretive or emotional amplification. In so doing, it resonates with our expectations, our memories, and our cultural conditioning. A pluffed-up performance mirrors the fullness we’ve learned to hear as emotionally convincing.

We seem, in this day and age of Swifties, less comfortable with the more period-informed performances of the Early Music tradition. The unadorned chant still lives in performances by the Oxford Camerata or the ever-popular Sequentia performance by Barbara Thornton.

Oxford Camerata (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hp6vSX-BQ4)

Barbara Thornton, Sequentia (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_iHMdmrZ_ec)

Voices alone, and textures exploring the nuance of one voice against many voices instead of one against a different kind of thing – a drone, or an instrumental timbre: these are delicate, demanding performances that invite us to dwell in a slower, more contemplative space to tease out nuances (that word again) of gesture and meaning.

So our reality is that there are options available. We can choose how we listen. We can decide what we prefer.

And being an informed and cultured society...

We prefer Taylor Swift. At least, we do numerically. Here are the YouTube stats:

• Oxford Camerata: 4.1K

• Sequential: 27K

• Harpa Dei: 2.8M

• St Stanislav: 584,979

Simple, vocal, and attention-requiring performances are getting good listening numbers. Hey, if I had that many readers, I’d be thrilled! But the bigger, richer, layered performances, those are evidently the listening draw. By orders of magnitude. For every one listener drawn to the “pure” chant, nearly 700 are drawn to the modernized, multi-layered performance. We're talking a couple of good-sized concert halls (yay, early music fans!) compared to 40 football-stadiums' worth of listeners (yay, broad public!).

As I said before, it’s not wrong. We like what we like, and I’m for anything that puts Hildegard on more people’s radar. It’s just important to recognize that when we drape an ambient pad across her vocal line, we aren’t just changing the music – we’re revealing our own ears, our own habits, our own desires for sound. Listening isn’t neutral; it’s a product of training, memory, culture, and expectation. We’ve been trained in ways that call on a soundscape that includes Taylor Swift.

Taylor Swift, Delicate: (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCXGJQYZ9JA)

With Taylor in our ears, we have work to do if we want to be ready to hear chant on its own terms. We have to practice what I think of as a kind of auditory humility. We can try to focus on our single line of melody. We have to resist the urge to thicken it, to sweeten it, to make it “pop.” If we’re attentive, we can notice how our own ears sometimes strain for harmonic cues that aren’t there, how our imaginations fill in the gaps with memories of orchestral swells or pop hooks. 

That tension – the tug between expectation and what actually sounds – is exactly where reflective listening begins. It’s in that space that we can start to hear Hildegard not as a Taylor Swift vocal needing polish, but as a voice moving through space, time, and ritual, and hear ourselves responding along the way.

In the end, of course, our ears can carry both Hildegard and Taylor. The challenge – and the reward – is learning to hear each on its own terms.

Of Space Aliens and Their Tentacles

The brain is a wonderful interpreter. It can make meaning out of almost-random bits of evidence and postulate an explanation that makes sense in its own context.

Take space aliens. The 1980s were full of them. Between E.T., Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Alien, and all those late-night “documentaries” about UFO sightings in cornfields, the world seemed brimming with cosmic visitors. If you were a teen back then, you probably half-expected to see a glowing spaceship land in your backyard, or at least some suspicious lights over the local water tower. Those stories gave shape to something deep in us: the need to explain what we can’t otherwise understand. When faced with odd lights in the sky or strange coincidences, the mind goes searching for narrative explanations.

More recently, however, space aliens are on the wane, at least in the circles in which I run. (Medievalists don’t have a lot of time for space aliens; we are more interested in the fabrication of data and plagiaristic activity that came out over Christmas vacation a couple of years ago. Best holiday ever, scandal unfolding in real-time!!!)

But me, I generated space aliens all my own in a dreamscape this weekend. Cold. Clammy. Tentacles everywhere. Space ships flying low over the civic stairs that we were climbing. (Funny how one never descends the steps in a dreamland).

And then I woke up.

And found this guy.

My little tree-frog had gotten into the camper and was bee-bopping around looking for the door.

Eventually, we captured him and put him back outside in the colder and wetter world to which he belonged.

But my tree frog story is not, in fact, quite as pointless as it might initially sound. As a story of how our brain works, it’s a reminder that sense-making is built in. My dreaming mind took a few sensory impressions – something cold and damp brushing my arm, a flicker of shadow against the window as the window-shades clanked – and built an entire alien narrative out of them. 

So take that pause with your data. Acknowledge that your brain might be overwriting the blurrier boundaries of historical truth. Go back and triple check those changes you thought you saw in the patterns. Are they there, or are they an artifact of a ghost frog telling your waking self a story that’s actually three parts unexpected nighttime encounter?

If the data support that insight, you’re golden. Please publish; your insights are marvelous.

If they don’t, accept that sometimes the brain sees patterns in clouds. But those cloud-pictures – dragons, faces, ships with sails – come from inside us. They don’t inhere in the cloud itself.

Being aware of what is “pattern” and what is “artifact” is one of the reasons I keep going back, and going back again to my primary sources. What word was used? Does an object list of this kind of thing or that kind of thing reinforce this change I think I see? Could there be another explanation? (That kind of meticulous cross-checking work is important, and not just an avoidance of the vacuum cleaner as my household sometimes maintains!)

Mondays seem a good day to check the stories you tell yourself. 

And it can be quite wonderful when historical stories come true.

Space aliens? Not quite so much.

May you – may WE ALL – have historical storytelling luck this week.

And may we all stick to sources we’ve consulted directly!

Now to go re-count the things...

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REFERENCE:

• Peter Kidd, "Nobody cares about your blog!" Medieval Manuscripts Provenance [Blog], December 2022: https://mssprovenance.blogspot.com/2022/12/nobody-cares-about-your-blog.html

• Charlotte Gauthier, “#ReceptioGate and the (absolute) state of academia,” The Critic, 4 Jan 2023, https://thecritic.co.uk/receptiogate-and-the-absolute-state-of-academia/

• Or perhaps you’d like to dabble in a different perspective on the matter: “Receptiogate” (“the official documentation site”): https://www.receptiogate.org/

 

The Silent Office Hour

Administration wants to encourage faculty-student interaction outside of the classroom, so they require the faculty to spend two hours on drop-in office hours a week.

Bwahaha.

Ask any faculty member, and I’ll bet you’ll find they agree with me. Office hours are the perfect time to submit travel receipts, catch up on paperwork, and take care of email. They’re just a terrible time to expect to see students.

Because students almost never come. Too far. Wrong time. Too nervous. No identified questions.

After all, who has questions before lunchtime? Questions are a nighttime activity. You know, after the faculty have already left campus.

If administration wanted to support genuine interaction between faculty and students, they would require things like:

1) Mandatory concert atttendance – and the wonderful chit-chat afterwards when we’ve all been moved to laughter or chills by the music in all its performative glory

2) Mandatory shared setup time. Before class even starts, when the projector’s misbehaving and I’m untangling cables, students drift in and talk about what they’re listening to, what’s happening in the world of campus and beyond, or whatever else is on their mind. No grade pressure, no formalities – just human contact with a purpose dangling from a HDMI cord.

3) Mandatory packing-up time. There’s nothing like unplugging the laptop from its station to bring on a host of quick one-off questions from students. (Some days I cynically wonder if more productive learning happens when I’m packing up than actually happened during discussion – there’s a lot of “aha” in those quick exchanges)

4) Mandatory text capacity. No, I don’t give out my phone number to students – but I do have students use a walkie-talkie app. They can leave voice or text messages; I can respond asynchronously, again, by voice or by text. This for me takes about 2 or 3 hours a week, since these can become extended conversational exchanges. (Please please please don’t tell me about the messaging app in your LMS. I live on a farm, with all the absent internet that comes with that. The walkie-talkie app takes two pennies; the LMS feed takes two dollars. Let’s stick with ‘Can I receive and respond?’ as our measure of tech success.)

5) Mandatory coffee fetching. When I’m in my office, I can feel lonely. Head out to get a cup of coffee from the lounge, and I inevitably bump into one or more students, and those conversations can be rich, deep, and meaningful. Those usually aren’t about course content – they’re about the discipline, life experiences, and our place in the world. You know, the stuff that carries forward in a forever kind of way.

6) Mandatory “big deadlines.” There’s nothing like a deadline to clarify what could use some support. And the problem with office hours is it is not only the wrong time for interactions, but it’s the wrong space, too. Better solutions come in the library, or in the hallway outside the restrooms (we’re just being honest here), or on the sidewalk between one space and another.

See, the problem with office hours is the office. It’s not that setting aside time for 1:1 with students is a bad idea – in fact, it’s one of the most valuable aspects of a college education. And it’s not that students don’t prize their access and the support it affords. They genuinely do respond to faculty who care.

It’s the whole idea that you can take all the ideals of academia, and put them in a box (the office) and on the clock (at a reasonable time of day). Real learning isn’t like that. Ideating and interaction both happen at their best on the spontaneous edges of other kinds of activities.

And spontaneity can’t be mandated.

But it can be invited to appear.

True Confessions: Here’s my shout-out to the real and impactful student moments—the ones that happen in the dining hall, the hallway after class, or occasionally (miracle of miracles) in my office. They're real. I just wish the last kind happened more often. And I’m not alone.

Smells and bells? Just bells!

So, I’m working through my memoria documents – charitable endowments for commemorative services – for a paper I’m writing. These are two sets of Charters from Bregenz, one cluster from the early 15^th century, and another from a century later, right at the start of the 16^th century.

I’ll save the big observations for the paper itself, but thought it interesting that the documents are very clear, abundantly clear, about many things. The donor wants this service and that one, done in this order, with this personel. That’s the what and the who. They want their services done in this place and that one, by these personnel. That’s the where and the who. (“Who” matters twice because payment depends on it).

In these documents, we also know the why and the how.The why has been well-studied; memoria are services of remembrance for the donor and his ancestors and descendents. The prayers given at the service help all these people toward salvation, and so engage with a different “who” than the question of who performs. The people being prayed for are often named family, and include marital family as well as natal. Sometimes, they include aunts and uncles, cousins (particularly those in orders), and even second spouses. They include the dead and the living, a point which has always struck me as a bit odd. What does it mean to be praying in remembrance of someone who might themselves be standing at graveside?

And the how is clear. With crosses and processions. At graveside. With singing and speaking and reading. With standing and sitting and bowing heads, and all the other choreography of ritual. Or, as Ursula Speckerin (1405) puts it in her own Alemannic dialect,

with worship and beginning with proclamation, with singing and with reading, with standing and with prayers, and with all other things in the way previously prescribed. [mit libtind (?) und begiengingt mit verkundung mit singet und mit lesent mit stende und mit genbent und mit allen andren dingen in der wiscz als vorgesteben stat.]

To this, we add the gifts to the sacristan for the provisions for service. There’s bread, and more specifically bread for the poor. There’s wine for the service. There are lights – candles – not just for the vigil, but for both masses as well. And there are bells, bells for the vigil, bells to be rung at mass, bells to announce the service.

All these things are mentioned, for all these things have costs.

And so we can run through the multisensory modalities of these memoria services:

• Sight: procession, cross, lights, people

• Sound: singing, reading, reciting, saying, bells

• Taste: bread, wine, “Tisch” or food at table (improved over their normal fare, in Ursula’s provisions)

• Feel: bowing, standing, sitting: all the embodied shifts of orientation of an active quasi-choreographed worship

• Smell: ???

The documents I’ve looked at, I realized, are completely tacet on the sense of smell. No mentions of incense or flowers or herbs or smoke or any other proxy for smell. The closest we get is the bread and the wine, placed on the altar and distributed to the poor, but the memoria endowments, for all their sometimes surprising specificity, don’t think to cover the sense of smell. And yet smell is typically a key part of liturgy. Its absence is striking.

I’m not entirely sure what to make of that. One plausible answer is because your incense for the censor is budgetted separately, and that in paying the sacristan you have already covered “the goods” necessary for the service.

But it is an interesting omission, and speaks to the question of what goes without saying and what must be specified when you’re seeking control of events-of-remembrance for after your demise.

Smell, it seems, was so woven into the fabric of ritual life that it didn’t need to be written down.

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RESOURCES:

Bregenz, Stadtarchiv Urk. 19. (Ursula Speckerin, 1405). Consulted via monasterium.net. (A list of other relevant charters is available from the author.)

For more on movement during prayer, see:

Cyrus, Cynthia J. 2025. "Praying Before the Image of Mary: Nuns’ Prayerbooks and the Mapping of Sacred Space" Religions 16, no. 10: 1277. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel16101277

Two standard works on memoria are:

Geuenich, Dieter, and Otto Gerhard Oexle. 1994. Memoria in der Gesellschaft des Mittelalters. Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte, Bd. 111. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

Geary, Patrick J. 1994. Phantoms of Remembrance: Memory and Oblivion at the end of the first Millennium. Princeton: Princeton UP.

From Draft to Done

Many writers talk about the "ugly draft." I'm here with images to confirm that drafts can, indeed, be ugly! Three months ago, this was the article, in its summative glory (?):

As you can see, I was working (as per usual) in a bound book. Not that I didn't have about 17 different computer files going. And a kindle with highlights. And a handwritten table a few pages before. And about 20 pages of hand-written notes on the articles I'd read. And a couple of other brainstorms.

But when push came to shove, this was the set of pages that I'd keep coming back to:

In orange on the left is the lit review. Well, not its formal version, but the ideas and the people I wanted to engage with, and, numerically, the order I decided to take them. Yeah, some midstream figure-it-out happened: 1.7 became 1.7a and 1.7b, and to be honest, 1.1 to 1.3 are on the previous page in the notebook. But the bulk of the content and the ordering got worked out, first by throwing stuff on the page, and then working with what order and what flow of ideas needed to happen.

Down at the bottom on the right is the outline of the method. That was the work that reminded me what I was covering and why. This section is the part that didn't really make it into the final paper, but it drove its direction. For me, the emphasis on close reading and the content of the prayers in question was something I reviewed iteratively -- first (A), about these prayers, first as sensorial compilations, then (A1) as their place in the space to which women had access, and finally (A2) in dialogue with the literature on performative reading. By having the method written out in front of me, I held myself accountable to the themes I was engaging.

The last bit, in yellow on the top right, is the part I originally thought this notebook opening was going to cover: it was my list of "emo words," the emotional and affective vocabulary that leapt out from my readings of these poems. This became a table in the article. Doing that word-count was the moment at which I knew where the article was headed. 

In my own head, this article follows a format similar to the one I teach my students:

It starts with the question of scholarly conversation, moves through several types of evidence, including a nerd table in section three, and concludes with an engagement with the question of what this all means. I've spoken to these kinds of formulas here and here, so this is my contribution on "how it applies in real life."

There were, as always, important edits that came between the bare-bones outline and submitted draft, and even more edits with the assistance of the anonymous readers (thank you, kind souls -- and thanks too for the speed of turn-around!). Edits and page proofs all went smoothly; this was a project that found its groove and kept to it. 

And so, here it is, the published article! 

From idea to delivery, this project was the fastest I have ever worked. But the cribs and habits that I've developed facilitated the careful integration into the literature, the original and -- perhaps quirky? -- assessment of what's going on in these prayers, and the big takeaway that is the whole point of writing such things.

This morning, I've written my "thank-you's." a part of my process that I require of myself before moving an article to the done and delivered stack. I *always* thank the library, and this time had several scholars whose "big ideas" informed my own; acknowledging those debts is a citation practice, but it also makes a nice email exchange. Plus, I shared the citation to professional colleagues -- and to family, of course. 

And then I closed out the files, took the "AA" header off the front of the file folder name that kept it at the top of the search stack, moved the line from the works-in-progress sheet to the one of projects that are done. And then I wandered through my kitchen, singing "done, done done done DONE!"

The citation to the finished project: 

Cyrus, Cynthia J. 2025. "Praying Before the Image of Mary: Nuns’ Prayerbooks and the Mapping of Sacred Space" Religions 16, no. 10: 1277. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel16101277

RELATED POSTS

• Musicological Paper Structures 101: https://silencesandsounds.blogspot.com/2025/10/musicological-paper-structures-101.html
• Managing Bibliography By Spreadsheet: https://silencesandsounds.blogspot.com/2025/04/managing-bibliography-through.html
• How To Jump-Start a Scholarly Article: The Plan: https://silencesandsounds.blogspot.com/2025/03/how-to-jump-start-scholarly-article-plan.html
• The Silence of Not-Writing – and What To Do About It: https://silencesandsounds.blogspot.com/2024/10/the-silence-of-not-writing-and-what-to.html
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The silence of the woods is full of noise

The woods are many things: peaceful, calming, multi-hued, and (in my memory) often silent. But that mental shorthand is a mistake. That forested silence only addresses the pleasurable absence of the sound-detritus of modern life. There are no car horns, no rumble of heating or cooling systems, no yakety yakety yak yak of too many people in too close proximity, no clacking keys, inspired or otherwise. In other words, the woods create the illusion of silence by taking away irritants.

Truth to tell, the thing my brain likes to encode as “silence” is anything but. There is, in the woods, a continuous burble of a stream. The crickets offer up a track of chirping, that sawing stridulation that calls to mates and forms the backdrop of dreamland.

Other night-noises abound as well. There’s the scream and then hoot of an owl noting its territory; the rustle of a mammalian something-or-other searching for a snack amidst the leaf-litter of the forest floor; the wit wit wit of a first bird at morning light. I listen to these noises, and translate them from the unexpected “what?” into the identified “oh, that.” These sounds bring the satisfaction of discovery, and yet they are quiet, ever so quiet, and in their quiet regularity they soothe.

What we (or at least I) think of as forest silence, then, is the absence of urban noise. It is also bound up in anticipatory listening. Was that the rumbling croak of frogs? The intermittent drops of dew from the treetops? The tap tap tap of water dribbling over an end-of-season waterfall?

Silence here is a coded word, speaking to peace as measured in slowed breathing -- the rise and fall of the backpacker at ease, sleeping perhaps more deeply than home bed and familiar surroundings allow. It is a word reflective of paced regularity, of less-familiar noises often repeated, assessed, and held in the translated understanding of thing-as-sound. By grappling with what a noise represents, we become comfortable with it, often to the point that it no longer registers.

What I recall, in my fecklessness, as silence, is instead the susuration of leaves, the murmers of small animals, the steady quiet systematic vamp-til-ready steady state of forest hum. It is, in other words, a low-level background that caresses and comforts my ears, accustomed as they are to the more penetrating sounds of urban existence.

Silence as golden? Not exactly. But forest as restorative, a living quiet that listens back? Absolutely!