I Hear Music In the Silence
A Secret, Sacred Serenade
There’s music where it’s not supposed to be.
There is no radio on. There’s no television. No phone playing iTunes, Spotify, or YouTube. The lights are dimmed and nightlights on; the doors are locked; the pillow is perfectly fluffed, and I’m half asleep on it when I hear the sounds from beyond the veil.
It has always been this way. I do not have a reference of a time that I did not hear the secret, sacred serenade.
It changes — the sound. It’s never the same twice. Sometimes, there are voices. Other times, it’s instrumental. Sometimes it’s soft sounds like John Denver, and other times it’s like ZZ Top or Van Halen. I hear Abba. I hear a church choir. Humming.
I do not listen to music. Ever. I do not have the television on. Ever. I do not subscribe to any streaming services at all — audio or visual. I appreciate a silent world, save for the clicks on the keyboard or the crunch of popcorn as I nestle into my Kindle. Silence.
I need silence.
Sound triggers me.
I once wrote on social media that I wondered if my cat was bothered by the lack of sound. If she knew there could be more fulfillment for her ears, or if she craved the quietude as much as I do.
Save for a decade in the 1990s when I was belting out angst by way of Alanis Morissette at the top of my lungs, I cannot tell you who sings most songs. I am musically illiterate. I do not know bands, save for those I mentioned above that I correlate to the sounds in my head — music I was unwillingly exposed to by siblings or mates.
I do not enjoy music.
And yet, when the world is hushed, the Universe sings to me.
I don’t know why. If you asked me to hum you a tune from the soft symphony, I couldn’t do it. I could not describe to you the sounds. If I knew how to write music notes, I could not replicate them.
Amnesia. I hear it and then immediately forget.
Even when they sing to me, there are no lyrics I can repeat, in spite of the fact that there is harmony and a clear representation of words.
I don’t know what “they” are trying to communicate with me, and I don’t know who “they” are, but they are musically inclined and I can hear them.
Maybe it’s that whole 3,6,9 — energy, frequency, vibration thing.
Maybe it’s connected to the Upsight Vision my son asked me to research that I plan on writing about — because apparently, according to my metaphysically-minded offspring (Wait, you mean I raised spiritual entities? Of course I did), I’m what they call a “Projector and Recorder.”
I experience the world in an odd, odd way — seeing and hearing what is blind to the eye and deaf to the ears, and then the eternal, divine scribe in me inks the stories for reasons I do not comprehend.
I do not understand. I want to understand. Clearly, there are messages being delivered to and through me, even if they’re not done clearly.
Fog.
I sleep with a white noise machine on at night to hush the sounds of songs, instruments, whispers, and sensations.
I sleep with lights on to mask the shadows.
I sleep with weighted blankets, so I’m less aware when there’s unexplained pressure on the mattress as if someone is sitting on the bed beside me.
I hear music in the silence.
