Day #012

Day #012:

Kumano Kodo.

The Sounds I Don’t Want to Forget.

What sounds do you never want to forget? If you could bottle them up – what would they be and why?

I’m not talking about the grand, orchestrated ones. The ones that require sheet music and instrumentation.

I’m talking about the echoes. The ones that sneak up on your memory like a whisper – then settle for a lifetime.

Roars. Names. Noise. Woofs. Meows.

This morning, I sat beneath the eaves of a Buddhist temple in Shingu.

Absolute stillness. Measured silence.

The only sound – a small stream of water emptying into a wooden basin – tipping, emptying, resetting.

Since being here, I’ve heard the waterfall beat its drum.

I’ve heard the trees embrace in the wind like old friends.

Lone birds singing . Maya Angelou in motion.

This place inches up the decibels on the things we usually miss.

The volume needle is turning to the right. Even if the noise remains distant on the horizon.

I realize – the most sacred moments don’t announce themselves - they arrive.

As sound.

Maybe it’s being on the Kumano – alone with nature. Alone with my own thoughts.

In the hush of my surroundings, memories start to arrive – not as images, but as sounds.

My ears are opening. I’m hearing more than I have in a while.

Memories of who I’ve been.

I don’t see my past. I hear it.

A cool mixtape.

Actually - what am I saying – it’s a burned CD.

I’m not that old.

This is my meditation…

It starts with the sound of ski boots on packed snow.

It’s a partial crunch – it’s a fractional squeak. It’s like a trapped sigh.

It’s beautiful.

It’s Angel Fire. I’m six – maybe seven.

Waddling like Ralphie’s brother – trying to keep up with my siblings on the slopes.

The cold stings my cheeks. My heart is light.

Mother Moguls warms my bones.

This may be my happiest memory from childhood. We are all together – something that seemed like an anomaly to me at the time.

More so now.

We smell like wet wool. Like winter.

We’re loud. There’s probably an argument.

It’s messy. It’s magical. There’s probably hot chocolate.

And it’s perfect.

That’s the sound of Christmas.

That sound of ski boots crunching in the snow – it wasn’t just winter. It was us.

It was our story. We were a family.

And just like that, my memories drift to other chapters of life...

These sounds shaped me. They taught me – not necessarily an academic lesson. A life lesson.

Sentimentality shows up in many ways.

The ping of an aluminum bat.

It’s summer. We’re on the diamond.

Parents in the stands.

Winning this game means everything.

We probably lose.

But Baskin Robins and burgers on the way home is a solid consolation prize.

I wasn’t particularly good – I’m not sure if that’s the point at 10.

Win when you’re 25 – live when you’re 10.

But I loved that sound.

Bat on ball. Even if just for a base.

Ping.

Cheers.

This collection of sounds: It’s a story arc – not individual chapters.

Memories aren’t compartmentalized – they’re like a Proust novel.

They flow into a prose that becomes a classic.

It may not be Swan’s Way...but -

In our house – PDA was normal. I wasn’t aware other houses didn’t have PDA until I arrived at college.

The sound: Dad coming home from work.

Mom arriving at the door.

And in an instant – a smooch.

That sound.

Mom and dad – no matter how hard things were or how gnarly the day had been – “I love you.”

Smooch.

That sound again.

It was the sound of love. It was the sound of commitment.

It was the sound that showed me what resilience really meant.

Not hiking a mountain. Not weathering a storm. Not winning a promotion.

Learning how to love – and to be there – even maybe you weren’t the best version of yourself.

It’s the greatest lesson my parents taught me.

Loving when it's easy is a given. Loving when it’s hard is where the golden lines form.

Memories collide now. A mosaic of events converge all at once. Saturdays at the Big House. Waves crashing on the Pacific. Jet engines to Thailand.

Jess – Do you want to move to Kuala Lumpur?

They all started with a single sound.

For some reason, people from Michigan hate the letter “A.” In a nasally, guttural pronunciation – they pulverize any word with a strong “A” inflection.

It’s mean.

But the first day I heard that weird accent to the north – I fell in love.

It was warm. The sun was shining. And – little did I know – an ambiguous decision to switch classes changed my life.

This woman: She’s animated. She’s excited. She’s teaching.

I was already smitten the moment I saw Jess – but then she talked.

And then she says the world “clavicle.”

Wow. Game changer.

In that moment – I knew I needed to understand the lands this woman came from. I needed to understand her more

“Michigan”? I suppose it’s on the map.

Let’s go on a date and discuss.

That was 20 years ago.

That sound of her voice. The peculiar way she spoke – different from my own – but real just the same.

I hear that voice every day – it’s my hug. It’s my purpose.

I open my ears – a group of deer run straight by me – I don’t know what they’re running from…

But I know what I used to want to run from…

and I can’t shake the sound of pure, total fear.

The sound that gave us nightmares growing up.

 The sound that gave us anxious warning…

The sharp, full-name shout and call to action.

“Mark Francis O’Connor – Where are you? Get here right now."

Uh oh - was that my middle name I heard?

Darwin’s advice would be to flee – sadly my piggy bank wouldn’t make it past the state border.

Immediately, I go into negotiation mode:

What do they know?

What do they think they knows?

How honest do I need to be?

Let’s weigh the punishment options and plan our strategy to balance the scales of justice.

The court was not always fair.

I suppose it was just.

These are only memories. Important ones to me. I’m sure you have your own.

These are not exhaustive. There’s so much that fills the soundtrack.

This was just one meditation. One burned CD.

Of many.

The crunch of Fall leaves under my shoes.

Gravel along the Marin Headlands.

Venice Ale House.

A crackling fire.

Fish market in Zanzibar.

The clink of wine glasses in Sonoma.

Laughs at Friends-Giving.

I love you.

With no one else around – I now hear my own breath.

I hear the stillness. I listen to the environment around me.

I’m anchored to this moment.

I keep smiling.

We’re always chasing big moments. Big changes. Big validation.

But maybe it’s the small ones – the sounds we quietly carry – that tell the truest story of who we are.

So let me ask you:

What’s the quietest sound that never left you – no matter how loud it got?

And when was the last time you stopped to listen to it?

Some memories don’t show up as images. They arrive as sound.

And they stay forever.