Listen

transcriptIn the Alaskan wilderness, a deeper truth awaits those who stop to listen.Do you remember who I am? Do you remember me? Your son? Hanky? Little Hanky? I call it my acoustic awakening, when I finally learned to slow down and really open my ears. Hey, kiddo. You recording us. You need to oil your bike. Ou. Need to fix your brakes, too. Hey, Mom. Hey, Mom. My parents are nearing the end of their life and they’re both moving through dementia. And it’s hard to see my parents unmoored from their memories. And in general, collectively, we are unmoored from the memory of being of this earth. It’s like a societal loss of memory. That density of birds does not exist in my yard anymore. I could record the sounds of my front porch for the rest of my life and never make a recording like that again. [Fire crackles.] There is no heartache when the birds die. When we’ve forgotten that they are kin. It feels like a lot of numbness there. Recognize that? That’s a loon. Loon on a lake like where you and Dad used to camp on all those Alaska lakes. [Sound of loons.] Those are loons, Mom. Loons on a lake. Yeah, you recognize that one. These voices have the power to call us back awake and we remember that we are inseparable from this huge, expansive — You remember I love you? — ongoing, never-ending concert of voices. [Bird sounds.] I have no idea what I’m going to be feeling as I approach my death. I like to fantasize that maybe I won’t be afraid, that maybe I will be lucky enough to move towards my last breath, embraced by that knowledge, that awareness that we are inseparable.