I've been privy lately to some folks' answers to the questions.
And they are good questions, despite James Liptons' despicable and laughable manner of inquiry.
I've had occasion - and inspiration - to think more about my favorite sound. Or, shall I say, sounds. I've decided that there are different types of sounds.
I truly love the sound of being under the water. It's not an absence of sound by any means. It's a unique soft noise that envelopes me and drowns out any other identifiable sound in a quiet soothing way. There's no opportunity for any other sound to make its way through the water surrounding my body and head.
I imagine the sound of being under the water as the sound of the womb. Just the sound of regular movement. Movement moving water. It's intense and relaxing all at once.
But the sound of being under water is not a sound that just happens. It's a sound I create by making it happen. And, in that sense, it's not a sound that happens upon me. Not a sound that surprises me. There's a difference.
A new friend shared her favorite sound: the warming up of the orchestra. I knew then that I liked her even more than I had when I initially met her. To recognize the promise and hope and excitement contained in the moments before the tap tap tap of the conductor's baton is amazing. When I was in law school, I could use my student ID to get five dollar tickets to the symphony. My friend and I would show up almost every Friday night just before curtain - or whatever the starting time of a symphony is called - to pay five dollar tickets for first row seats. To sink into a first class symphony seat after a long hard week is pure ecstacy.
My new friend's offering reminded me of pre-sounds. The sounds that indicate what's to come. Like the sound of a mouth starting to smile. Like the sound of a smile on the telephone. Like the moment one stops breathing before expressing the breath of relief or satisfaction or release.
Like the sound of static on the tape before the recorded music or voice starts to play. CD has no such sound. But music tapes and books on tape all share the same anticipatory tease. A great pre-sound. The announcement of joy soon to be had.
Another friend likes the sound of the bicycle chain. Understandably so. It's a great sound. I can only imagine what that sound must mean to my friends who accomplish so much on those fifteen pound vehicles. I can never imagine what that sound means to Lance Armstrong. It must be the sound of coming home.
Personally, I've always feared the sound of the bicycle chain. When I hear the chain, I imagine that it sounds different than usual. Maybe I'm not in gear. Maybe the chain's broken or ready to break. But I'm never quite sure. I've never become familiar enough with the working of the chain to be comfortable when the chain talks to me.
My own sports don't require much gear, but I do like the sound of running shoes. Any sound of running shoes. The sound of those first few steps outside first thing in the morning. When those steps are the only disruption to the dark morning silence. The pitter pat of the shoes on the path. I like the fact that you don't hear your shoes for so much of a run when you've reached a place in your mind that enables you to forget the world around you.
But not every favorite sound is a soothing sound. I read today about a woman left widowed by the snipers last January. Although moving on and becoming somewhat political in her response to the crime, she still listens for her husband's key in the door. I know that I miss the sound of someone I love coming home, but I stopped missing the sound of keys in the door pretty early on. I suppose I'm just looking forward to the next love of my life making the traditional coming home sounds. I also suppose that people have all different sorts of reactions to the coming home sounds. Some might relish the absence of such sounds.
Waking up sounds provide great fodder for comfort. I grew up in a family of sleepers. Except for my father, an involuntary early bird, my brothers and my mom have always loved to sleep in. Growing up, sleeping late was a luxury that everyone in the house recognized and respected. The first ones up knew very well to keep the peace for those still avoiding the day.
I remember waiting forever for my older brother to wake up during those pre-teen years when I idolized him and he just thought I was a little whiny pain in the butt. These days I call him early every so often just to wake him up. It's my revenge for the tortures he imposed on me.
But in the earliest days, before even my younger brother existed, sleeping late on weekend mornings inevitably meant waking to the sound of the adding machine downstairs.
My dad was practicing accounting way back then. Working around the clock to make a good life for us. Working around the clock to become something besides an accountant. These days he won't even answer the most basic tax question. He's well beyond his accounting past. Maybe he doesn't want to remember that which he once knew so well. As a person with my own past professional lives, I can understand the sentiment.
But in those days, he spent all of his time on the adding machine. And he had some impressively fast fingers. The consistent rhythym of the numbers being input and then totaled was a sound I knew well. It was the sound of being cared for. It was a comforting world to wake up in.
One of my favorite girlie girls - and a recent elementary school graduate who crowned her success with five student awards - loves the sound of rain. An excellent choice, I believe. One of my own favorites. And a most sophisticated and interesting choice since her number one turn off is starting the day with rain. She says it puts her in a bad mood.
The younger girlie girl - an emotional, dramatic, stubborn and completely-irresistable-in-spite-of-it babe loves the sound of the dog barking. I can't blame her. Albert, the aforementioned dog, begins barking before the school bus reaches the street corner. By the time the girlie girls enter the house, Albert is bursting with the excitement of anticipation and love. Who wouldn't have that sound as a favorite?
Both girls agree unanimously that the lawnmower is their most hated noise.
I wonder what percentage of Americans would agree. I'm thinking the number would be pretty high. Then again, I wonder who would love or even like that sound - besides the person earning a living off of a lawnmower. You know there's someone out there. I just really wonder who that person is and what the association is that makes that wretched sound so sweet to them.
The girlie girl graduate - a potential lawyer if ever I've met one - has a favorite word too. I had to look it up when she told me.
Lionize.
Apparently, it was a recent spelling word.
Lionize is a most excellent word. It means to treat or regard as a lion or object of great interest. Very kool.
I'm happy that a girl so young likes a word so good.
Her little sister's favorite word is whatever. I don't think that will come as any great surprise to her mom.
Yesterday I went to the pool. It was lap swim, but it was a Sunday. In addition to the lanes set aside for laps, there were areas filled with adults taking water aerobics, parents and children learning water skills and babies learning to just be in the water. It was so loud. The air was filled with the loud noises of shrieking and whistles and a very peppy young man instructing adults to "twist, twist, twist, twist."
Even underwater, the din crept in.
I used meditation to focus on one sound. The sound of my breathing.
Right now, as I sit here writing, I just hear nothing. If I listen purposefully, I can hear the slight sound of the air conditioning, a clock ticking, an airplane just passing in the distance....
But mostly it's silent.
And silence has become one of my most favorite sounds.