Ten years ago I was living in Southern Colorado in a little town at the foot of the Spanish Peaks. I wasn't happy. I used to go out at dawn to walk on the then-renowned golf course in that place. It was the only place I could be alone and uninterrupted. I used to pray, cry, speak aloud my gratitude. I'll never forget, in the spring, the sound of the great horned owls hooting back and forth across the empty golf course as the sky lightened (I imagined them conversing about the night as they settled down to sleep) and then the song of the first meadowlark. Something about the threshold part of the day was so magical ... To this day the song of a meadowlark makes me weep, and I've always loved the owls as well. I'm in Maine now. Different species of owls and no meadowlarks, but I've never forgotten their enchanting, heart-stirring sound and those long walks alone when my heart was filled with pain. The owls and meadowlarks cracked it open a little with their beauty and innocence and I survived.
Jennifer, I am so moved by your sounds of home, and everything you shared here -- by the two birds who were such dear companions to you during that painful time, by the magic of the threshold part of each day, and especially by what you shared here: "The owls and meadowlarks cracked it open a little with their beauty and innocence and I survived."
Thank you so much again for taking the time to share that, I'll be thinking over your poignant words throughout the day. PS -- I've also just looked up the song of the meadowlark and can absolutely see why it means so much to you, how clear and pure and beautiful 🤍
The sound of pebbles and coarse sand clacking underfoot mixed in with the notes of tall waves breaking against rocks fading into a swooshing end note, a mark of the fanned out spray in the split second before the iodine smell tickles your nose. That’s Porto, actually a very specific beach in Porto. It’s uncanny how so few of the beaches I visited have a soundscape that feels like home. Lately, some portions along the Sea of Japan, perhaps? Also, the sound of cracking or clacking bamboo and the loud caw of a crow in the early morning. Both always take me back to Japan - the first to the bamboo groves, gardens and water fountains, the second to the excitement of waking up to a brand new day in Tokyo.
Mafalda, I'm so glad you took the time to share your sounds of home! Ever since our beautiful conversation a few years back, I have loved the unique mix of places that are home for you in the world -- from Portugal to Japan to Switzerland.
Everything you shared here is so evocative, especially the sounds of pebbles on your home beach and the clacking of the bamboo groves. Also, you've got me curious -- are there many crows in Tokyo? That's not something I was aware of, and I love knowing that now :)
It's always a pleasure to read your illustrated essays, I still have a few to catch up on since my last stay in Japan just a few weeks back, and very much looking forward to savouring them over the summer.
Yes, there are many crows in Tokyo (far too many for most residents' taste I believe, given their streetsmarts). Their sounds usually get drowned out from mid-morning until sunset in the big metropolis, but as the sun rises fairly early if you take a walk down any quiet lane before 8:00 am a loud caw as a crow crosses the deep blue sky above your head will probably be the most distinct sound you hear, summer or winter alike. The most frequent species in Japan is the large-billed crow. Its bill does look thicker when compared to a raven's, which is probably the species you and I are likely more familiar with.
The sound of loons on the ponds on our property on hot summer evenings/nights when sleeping with the windows open (growing up, we didn't have air conditioning).
Wow, Jolene -- I just looked up the sound of loons and am so moved by how plaintive their call is. I can absolutely see how that would stay with you from childhood. Thanks so much for sharing such an evocative memory and sound of home 🤍
The sounds of rain hitting the solid wood deck at my grandmother's house. My bedroom was the closest to the deck that overlooks the acreage behind the house. Every time that it rained I could sleep easier because the sound would drown out all of the noises that would keep me awake. It was like a giant safety net.
Jahzeer, I'm so moved by what you shared here -- thank you so much for taking the time to share such a poignant sound of home. I love the idea of the rain being like a giant safety net for you, and I couldn't agree more that the sound of rainfall brings me so many feelings of comfort and peace as well 🙏
The sounds of French being spoken as cups and saucers clink. I didn’t grow up in France and yet that sound makes me feel calm and relaxed. Paris feels like home to me and I get homesick for it.
I love your comment, Ashley, and especially the idea that the sound of a different language being spoken is a sound of home for you, full of comfort and familiarity. That's such a beautiful thought, and I'm so glad you took the time to share it 🤍
I love thunderstorms, and always remember the dramatic reverberations of the thunderclaps that came from the high-rise apartment buildings I could see from my windows in my first New York apartment...long time gone.
Yes! Thunderstorms are such a sound of home for me as well, and take me right back to my childhood in Virginia -- thanks so much for taking the time to share that, Joan.
The sounds of birds chirping and lake water slapping the shore. The sound of a trailer door clicking open and slamming shut. The crunch of rocks beneath several sets of feet.
I love this mix of sounds that are home for you, Taimie -- and that of rocks crunching "beneath several sets of feet" evokes such a compelling visual image as well. Thank you for sharing!
The sounds of kids happily playing outside while grass is being mowed reminds me of my childhood when a bunch of us had big backyards back on to each other and the kids could freely run around that large area and play together.
I love this, Nicky, and you've reminded me of how much the steady low whirring of a lawnmower takes me right back to childhood as well. Thanks so much for sharing such a joy-filled sound of home :)
Having lived in South America for many years now, the incessant, social chatter of the green parrots is home to me. I hear them and then always look up to find their nest high up in the trees.
For me, it's the sound of the convection oven kicking on, meaning my Dad is up to cooking something good on a lazy Saturday morning, probably muffins. I could hear it through my old bedroom wall, and I often wake up to it when I take holiday trips back to see my parents. They are selling their house this year to move back to where they grew up, closer to me now but farther away from memories.
These days, home is the sound of the coffee grinder going off on similarly lazy Saturday mornings, my husband making the first pot of "good" coffee to signal the start of free time. We drink mediocre coffee during the week and save the locally roasted, more expensive "good" stuff for the weekend when we can truly enjoy it.
Renee, I love these sounds of home, especially as I could really go for a muffin and a cup of good coffee right about now 😊 I also loved this phrase you wrote -- "closer to me now but farther away from memories," that's such a beautiful and poignant thought. Thanks so much for reading and sharing these!
The sound of my current home has got to be squeaky floorboards. I've never been able to move stealthily past the kids' rooms in the night! I also appreciated that you chose the sense of sound because I just wrote a little post about the sense of *sight* and old memories (rereading an old picture book) - so that makes two of us breaking out of the conventional wisdom about taste and smell (not that those aren't also important). I'm glad for the company. :-)
I love that home is squeaky floorboards for you, Tara -- that is such an evocative sound, and it reminds me so much of an Airbnb I stayed in last October with my parents and Elena, who was six months old at the time. It also had *the* squeakiest floorboards ever, so I can absolutely relate to trying to summon up that stealthy ninja walk each night and during naptimes :)
And thank you for mentioning your post here! I just went and read it, and as a huge fan of Little Golden Books, it brought me a lot of joy to read :) I especially loved one of your last lines: "The science of sense and memory does not seem to account for what happens when we pick up a beloved old book and relive the knowledge, sensation, and identity of the past." I hope you keep exploring that in future posts! 📚🤍
Thank you for finding the post. Yup, that’s the one. 😊 I’ll try not to overdo nostalgia, but I write about various ways enchantment relates to books. Today I’ll give extra attention to the sounds of the house. :-)
We live in Southern California, and there is an events center at the edge of our neighborhood. Starting in May, there are motocross races on Friday and Saturday evenings. It might sound strange, but home and the start of summer is wrapped up in the sound of motocross bikes and crowds cheering. It’s distant enough to make me smile and remind me that summer days are on the way!
Robyn, I love this sound of home, especially for how unexpected it is. There's already several themes emerging in everyone's comments here -- especially that of birdsong and water and the crackle of a wood-burning fire -- so I love the idea that something as different as the sound of a motocross race is the sound of home for you :) Thanks so much for sharing that, and what a fun harbinger of summer!
The first meadowlark in late spring, standing on a fence post, singing its little Ode to Joy. The rush of the river in the darkest hours of night as a coyote choir echoes off the mountainside. The utter stillness of falling snow, a hot fire in the stove, popping as it burns, and the soft breathing of Doggo as she sleeps on her back on the warm hearth.
Switter, this reads like pure poetry -- thanks so much for sharing such a beautiful collection of memories and sounds of home. And I'm not sure if you saw Jennifer's comment up above, but she also wrote about meadowlarks, so I will officially be painting one for the final round-up :)
The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of our mature cherry tree at the front, the doves cooing. At the back, the chickens clucking, wood being chopped, a distant dog bark and a lawnmower with purpose. Soon the sound of the gravel as my son races up the driveway ready for a drink or a snack or to ask me to tie his laces. The sound of our fire roaring in winter, the smell of something comforting wafting through from the kitchen and the feel of a warm cup of English tea in my hands. ✨✏️☕️🌀
Claire, this is such a beautiful collection of memories and sounds, it almost reads like a prose poem. And I especially love how you imbued each sound of home with such tender emotion -- from the sound of your son racing up the driveway all the way to a "lawnmower with purpose," what a great phrase :) Thank you so much for taking the time to share these! 🤍 ✨
Ten years ago I was living in Southern Colorado in a little town at the foot of the Spanish Peaks. I wasn't happy. I used to go out at dawn to walk on the then-renowned golf course in that place. It was the only place I could be alone and uninterrupted. I used to pray, cry, speak aloud my gratitude. I'll never forget, in the spring, the sound of the great horned owls hooting back and forth across the empty golf course as the sky lightened (I imagined them conversing about the night as they settled down to sleep) and then the song of the first meadowlark. Something about the threshold part of the day was so magical ... To this day the song of a meadowlark makes me weep, and I've always loved the owls as well. I'm in Maine now. Different species of owls and no meadowlarks, but I've never forgotten their enchanting, heart-stirring sound and those long walks alone when my heart was filled with pain. The owls and meadowlarks cracked it open a little with their beauty and innocence and I survived.
Jennifer, I am so moved by your sounds of home, and everything you shared here -- by the two birds who were such dear companions to you during that painful time, by the magic of the threshold part of each day, and especially by what you shared here: "The owls and meadowlarks cracked it open a little with their beauty and innocence and I survived."
Thank you so much again for taking the time to share that, I'll be thinking over your poignant words throughout the day. PS -- I've also just looked up the song of the meadowlark and can absolutely see why it means so much to you, how clear and pure and beautiful 🤍
The sound of pebbles and coarse sand clacking underfoot mixed in with the notes of tall waves breaking against rocks fading into a swooshing end note, a mark of the fanned out spray in the split second before the iodine smell tickles your nose. That’s Porto, actually a very specific beach in Porto. It’s uncanny how so few of the beaches I visited have a soundscape that feels like home. Lately, some portions along the Sea of Japan, perhaps? Also, the sound of cracking or clacking bamboo and the loud caw of a crow in the early morning. Both always take me back to Japan - the first to the bamboo groves, gardens and water fountains, the second to the excitement of waking up to a brand new day in Tokyo.
Mafalda, I'm so glad you took the time to share your sounds of home! Ever since our beautiful conversation a few years back, I have loved the unique mix of places that are home for you in the world -- from Portugal to Japan to Switzerland.
Everything you shared here is so evocative, especially the sounds of pebbles on your home beach and the clacking of the bamboo groves. Also, you've got me curious -- are there many crows in Tokyo? That's not something I was aware of, and I love knowing that now :)
It's always a pleasure to read your illustrated essays, I still have a few to catch up on since my last stay in Japan just a few weeks back, and very much looking forward to savouring them over the summer.
Yes, there are many crows in Tokyo (far too many for most residents' taste I believe, given their streetsmarts). Their sounds usually get drowned out from mid-morning until sunset in the big metropolis, but as the sun rises fairly early if you take a walk down any quiet lane before 8:00 am a loud caw as a crow crosses the deep blue sky above your head will probably be the most distinct sound you hear, summer or winter alike. The most frequent species in Japan is the large-billed crow. Its bill does look thicker when compared to a raven's, which is probably the species you and I are likely more familiar with.
The sound of loons on the ponds on our property on hot summer evenings/nights when sleeping with the windows open (growing up, we didn't have air conditioning).
Wow, Jolene -- I just looked up the sound of loons and am so moved by how plaintive their call is. I can absolutely see how that would stay with you from childhood. Thanks so much for sharing such an evocative memory and sound of home 🤍
The sounds of rain hitting the solid wood deck at my grandmother's house. My bedroom was the closest to the deck that overlooks the acreage behind the house. Every time that it rained I could sleep easier because the sound would drown out all of the noises that would keep me awake. It was like a giant safety net.
Jahzeer, I'm so moved by what you shared here -- thank you so much for taking the time to share such a poignant sound of home. I love the idea of the rain being like a giant safety net for you, and I couldn't agree more that the sound of rainfall brings me so many feelings of comfort and peace as well 🙏
The sound of my old black labrador snoring gently (and sometimes not so gently!).
The best!
Maybe the old dog could use a C-Pup?
The sounds of French being spoken as cups and saucers clink. I didn’t grow up in France and yet that sound makes me feel calm and relaxed. Paris feels like home to me and I get homesick for it.
I love your comment, Ashley, and especially the idea that the sound of a different language being spoken is a sound of home for you, full of comfort and familiarity. That's such a beautiful thought, and I'm so glad you took the time to share it 🤍
I love thunderstorms, and always remember the dramatic reverberations of the thunderclaps that came from the high-rise apartment buildings I could see from my windows in my first New York apartment...long time gone.
Yes! Thunderstorms are such a sound of home for me as well, and take me right back to my childhood in Virginia -- thanks so much for taking the time to share that, Joan.
The sounds of birds chirping and lake water slapping the shore. The sound of a trailer door clicking open and slamming shut. The crunch of rocks beneath several sets of feet.
I love this mix of sounds that are home for you, Taimie -- and that of rocks crunching "beneath several sets of feet" evokes such a compelling visual image as well. Thank you for sharing!
The sounds of kids happily playing outside while grass is being mowed reminds me of my childhood when a bunch of us had big backyards back on to each other and the kids could freely run around that large area and play together.
I love this, Nicky, and you've reminded me of how much the steady low whirring of a lawnmower takes me right back to childhood as well. Thanks so much for sharing such a joy-filled sound of home :)
Thanks Candace! Love this concept in general and it's fascinating to see what comes up for people!
The comforting sounds of my furry babies welcoming me home.
There's no better sound, is there? :)
Definitely not. XXXX
Having lived in South America for many years now, the incessant, social chatter of the green parrots is home to me. I hear them and then always look up to find their nest high up in the trees.
I couldn't agree more with you, my friend! For the rest of my life, one home will always be where the monk parakeets make their nest 😊🦜
For me, it's the sound of the convection oven kicking on, meaning my Dad is up to cooking something good on a lazy Saturday morning, probably muffins. I could hear it through my old bedroom wall, and I often wake up to it when I take holiday trips back to see my parents. They are selling their house this year to move back to where they grew up, closer to me now but farther away from memories.
These days, home is the sound of the coffee grinder going off on similarly lazy Saturday mornings, my husband making the first pot of "good" coffee to signal the start of free time. We drink mediocre coffee during the week and save the locally roasted, more expensive "good" stuff for the weekend when we can truly enjoy it.
Renee, I love these sounds of home, especially as I could really go for a muffin and a cup of good coffee right about now 😊 I also loved this phrase you wrote -- "closer to me now but farther away from memories," that's such a beautiful and poignant thought. Thanks so much for reading and sharing these!
Aw, I’m glad you liked it! Looking forward to seeing the post all these ideas turn into.
The sound of my current home has got to be squeaky floorboards. I've never been able to move stealthily past the kids' rooms in the night! I also appreciated that you chose the sense of sound because I just wrote a little post about the sense of *sight* and old memories (rereading an old picture book) - so that makes two of us breaking out of the conventional wisdom about taste and smell (not that those aren't also important). I'm glad for the company. :-)
I love that home is squeaky floorboards for you, Tara -- that is such an evocative sound, and it reminds me so much of an Airbnb I stayed in last October with my parents and Elena, who was six months old at the time. It also had *the* squeakiest floorboards ever, so I can absolutely relate to trying to summon up that stealthy ninja walk each night and during naptimes :)
And thank you for mentioning your post here! I just went and read it, and as a huge fan of Little Golden Books, it brought me a lot of joy to read :) I especially loved one of your last lines: "The science of sense and memory does not seem to account for what happens when we pick up a beloved old book and relive the knowledge, sensation, and identity of the past." I hope you keep exploring that in future posts! 📚🤍
Thank you for finding the post. Yup, that’s the one. 😊 I’ll try not to overdo nostalgia, but I write about various ways enchantment relates to books. Today I’ll give extra attention to the sounds of the house. :-)
We live in Southern California, and there is an events center at the edge of our neighborhood. Starting in May, there are motocross races on Friday and Saturday evenings. It might sound strange, but home and the start of summer is wrapped up in the sound of motocross bikes and crowds cheering. It’s distant enough to make me smile and remind me that summer days are on the way!
Robyn, I love this sound of home, especially for how unexpected it is. There's already several themes emerging in everyone's comments here -- especially that of birdsong and water and the crackle of a wood-burning fire -- so I love the idea that something as different as the sound of a motocross race is the sound of home for you :) Thanks so much for sharing that, and what a fun harbinger of summer!
The first meadowlark in late spring, standing on a fence post, singing its little Ode to Joy. The rush of the river in the darkest hours of night as a coyote choir echoes off the mountainside. The utter stillness of falling snow, a hot fire in the stove, popping as it burns, and the soft breathing of Doggo as she sleeps on her back on the warm hearth.
Switter, this reads like pure poetry -- thanks so much for sharing such a beautiful collection of memories and sounds of home. And I'm not sure if you saw Jennifer's comment up above, but she also wrote about meadowlarks, so I will officially be painting one for the final round-up :)
The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of our mature cherry tree at the front, the doves cooing. At the back, the chickens clucking, wood being chopped, a distant dog bark and a lawnmower with purpose. Soon the sound of the gravel as my son races up the driveway ready for a drink or a snack or to ask me to tie his laces. The sound of our fire roaring in winter, the smell of something comforting wafting through from the kitchen and the feel of a warm cup of English tea in my hands. ✨✏️☕️🌀
Claire, this is such a beautiful collection of memories and sounds, it almost reads like a prose poem. And I especially love how you imbued each sound of home with such tender emotion -- from the sound of your son racing up the driveway all the way to a "lawnmower with purpose," what a great phrase :) Thank you so much for taking the time to share these! 🤍 ✨
You’re so welcome! ✨❤️✏️