“And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That’s one thing he hated! The Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!”

From How the Grinch Stole Christmas by Dr. Suess


It’s getting quieter now, in the Autumn. It’s cooler, the cicadas are slowing, sometimes almost silent, so different than it was a month ago with their constant buzzing, all day and half the night. The crickets and grasshoppers are audible now, a sweet sound to me, who loves this time, the going down time, the preparing for the resting time, cooler, darker, deeper.

And that’s one thing I love about the country, as opposed to the city—the quiet, the absence of street noise, the constant buzz of human activity.

Right. Even as I speak a jet flies overhead, with barely a moment’s peace before the next one, keeping right up with the neighborhood mowers and tractors and leaf blowers and chain saws, as well as that other ubiquitous sound of Autumn—gun shots. And then there are those people who drive their pickups in from some other county to fly their remote controlled airplanes in the field across the road.

Blessed are the peacemakers, blessed are the peacemakers . . .

One of the things that stood out for me on September 11, 2001, was the quiet. It was still hot, there was still some cicada buzz, crickets, birds, but no airplanes. Very little traffic sound from the highway. No mowers or chainsaws or leaf blowers. It was a stillness of waiting, of uncertainty, and of course, fear.

The first thing I heard that day was the siren from the Harris Nuclear Plant. That’s what got me up and out of the house. And then I heard the news that something strange was happening in New York City.

The first thing I heard this morning, sitting in my bed, tatting, with the window open on the cool quiet morning, was the siren from the Harris Nuclear Plant. Several times. I always wonder now when I hear it—is this it? Is today the day? Is it our turn, my turn?

There are so many words of fear and warning flying about today, so many dire predictions, so many reminders of this or that potential catastrophe, returnings of prophesies of apocalypse. And with such variety that it seems impossible that life as we know it can survive.

But what are we doing about it? As far as I can see, very little. I read that the governor of California has given industry until 2020 to reduce their use of fossil fuel by 25%. From what I’ve heard from the scientists, there won’t be any 2020, much less any fossil fuel, vehicles to run on it, humans to drive them or governors to govern them.

Let’s all switch to fluorescent light bulbs. Let’s build windmills. Let’s drive Priuses. Let’s only water our lawns at night.

Let’s get real!

Right. Okay, that helped. But there it is again, that wonderful old question—what is real? I pondered all this on my walk today, out in the brilliant sunlight in the field where on a clear day, such as today, the only cloud in the sky is that puff of steam from the Harris Plant. Still there, no flames shooting out. Must have just been a test. Is it all just a test? How would I know? I won’t, until, unless, someday, I do see those flames, or some other kind from some other place.

But for now, everywhere I go, it all looks like life going on as usual.

We’ve been talking for years here at the Tierney-Wilson compound about what we should do to prepare for the future, whatever future that might be, what we can do to become less dependent on the rest of the world, on fossil fuel, on the grid. Build a cistern, add solar hot water pipes, get the garden going again, plant blueberry bushes. We’ve done some things—built our house passive solar, stashed some grains and beans, filled gallon bottles with water. But bigger steps are tough. This morning when I heard that siren I thought, what if it’s today? How long can we survive on ten pounds of rice and beans, fourteen gallons of water? We’ve got a dog and cat to feed too. And our families—what if they need to come here?

On my walk I realized that all these thoughts were paralyzing me, making me so anxious I couldn’t do anything. I can’t get there from here. I need to take smaller steps, make gradual changes, and granted, though I may not have time to make gradual changes, from where I am now, that’s all I can do. And that’s okay. I’m thinking of the future, considering the all-too-frightening possibilities, doing what I can. And the things I can and plan to do are not ridiculous or from a place of panic, but practical, things that would be good and useful to do no matter what future we have.

So I gathered some more water bottles, made plans to finish painting the floor, started my bread dough, and sat down to write this for myself, to help me get a wider, clearer picture of where I stand on this planet, of what I believe as opposed to what others are saying, of what I really know as opposed to what I believe or suspect, of what I can do to keep myself planted here, grounded yet flexible, conscious and aware but not panic-stricken.

It’s not so quiet with my Mac humming, and the roar of a neighborhood ATV and another jet, but I can still hear the birds singing, the squirrels fussing, the dog snoring, the wind chimes ringing. Not silence, but relatively peaceful. A quiet filled with life, life winding down toward the end of the year, definitely, to the end of life, maybe, to the end of my life, certainly.

But I’m going to keep thinking, planning, doing—punch my bread down and set it to rise again, revel in the smell as it bakes. As Jimmy Buffett says, “I’d rather die while I’m living, than live while I’m dead.”


October 5, 2006
© copyright Maggie Wilson