Sounds for sleeping
24/07/16 05:14
I woke this morning with a memory of a night years ago when we were camping. We were sleeping in a tent and our father was teaching us to estimate the distance of lightning strikes by counting the seconds between the flash and the sound of the rolling thunder. There are thunderstorms off to the east of our home this morning and the sound of the thunder echoing off of the hills makes it easy to know that there is some distance between us and the lightning at the moment. I’m not sure how accurate my memory is and I’m quite sure that our counting the seconds method of measuring distance wasn’t very accurate in the first place, but the way I remember that night in the tent is that we were estimating that sound traveled at about a quarter mile a second, or four seconds equalled a mile. We were assuming that the speed of light was so great that our perception was nearly instantaneous, so four seconds meant the lighting strike was a mile away, eight meant it was two miles away, etc.
Of course, in those days we didn’t figure in all of the variables. Sound travels at different speeds in different media, so the air pressure, temperature and humidity in the air affects the speed of sound.
The exercise, of course, was in part to calm a tent full of kids who were out in the mountains in a tent in the middle of the night with thunderstorms in the area. There wasn’t much chance of sleeping for a little while as the storms circulated and there was nothing to be gained by increasing the sense of fear, so a little lesson in awareness that the storm was moving away from us was valuable to keep the troops quiet.
I’ve since weathered other storms in various tents. I’ve come to find that wind can make the night in a tent far more uncomfortable than rain or lightning, provided the tent has been pitched in a relatively safe location and has adequate drainage so that the rainwater flows away from the tent. When the wind is blowing hard enough to push the sides of the tent in against your sleeping bag, you begin to wonder if the tent will still be there in the morning.
It is interesting how the insects and birds quiet down when there is a storm. They seem to know how to seek out shelter and their normal activities are subdued during thundershowers. What I could hear this morning was simply the thunder and the sound of the raindrops falling.
The rain, of course, is welcome. Despite a severe pounding by hail a week ago, my garden has started to recover. The sunflowers have new leaves, the squash is sporting a new blossom and there is even one tomato starting to turn color. I don’t know if we’ll get a long enough season to harvest tomatoes, but there are some new blossoms on the scraggly plants and perhaps we’ll see some harvest. I’ve been watering the garden with the hose, but it does better with rainwater than well water.
In the security of our home, the rain is a refreshing sound to which to wake. And the thunder wasn’t really loud enough to interrupt my sleep. I woke to the echoing booms and the sound of raindrops. I doubt if there will be very much moisture from this storm, but every drop is precious.
More and more of the people of the world now live in cities where the buildings are climate controlled and the pattern is to sleep with the windows closed to keep from wasting heat or air conditioning and to keep out the sounds of the city. It was different when we lived in Chicago so many years ago. The apartment building where we lived for half of our Chicago years was receiving air conditioning on the day we moved out of the building. Four years of no air conditioning wasn’t a burden for us because we only stayed in the city for one of the summers. The other years we were in the mountains of Montana away from the heat of the city. As a result, I’ve lived in places where open windows for sleeping has been the norm. I’m sure I could make the adjustment, but it would be a challenge for me. I like the sounds of the outside world. I enjoy the crickets who gather around the foundation of the house. I like to wake to the birds. I appreciate the fact that each day is a little different from each other day. I have my routines, to be sure, but I notice the passage of time and the changing of seasons by the sounds and temperatures of the world outside of my bedroom.
For most of human history, people have lived in close relationship with the land and animals. The walled canvas tent of my childhood offered more protection from the weather than some of the structures in which people lived. And we used the tent only for a few nights in the summer. Most of the time we had a sturdy wood-framed house that was well-insulated and had a good furnace to keep us warm in the winter. Sometimes we’d hear stories of our grandfather, who was born in a sod home out on the prairie before his father could complete their house, but we never really could imagine the winter our grandparents spent in that half-buried hovel with only one window. Looking back now, it must have been a long winter and the nights when the winds howled and the snow piled up must have felt very confining.
Somewhere between that way of living and urban isolation, we are fortunate to have a comfortable home where we can sleep with the windows open and the human neighbors far enough away that we can listen to the birds and insects and occasionally be lulled to sleep by a passing shower.
Life is good.
Of course, in those days we didn’t figure in all of the variables. Sound travels at different speeds in different media, so the air pressure, temperature and humidity in the air affects the speed of sound.
The exercise, of course, was in part to calm a tent full of kids who were out in the mountains in a tent in the middle of the night with thunderstorms in the area. There wasn’t much chance of sleeping for a little while as the storms circulated and there was nothing to be gained by increasing the sense of fear, so a little lesson in awareness that the storm was moving away from us was valuable to keep the troops quiet.
I’ve since weathered other storms in various tents. I’ve come to find that wind can make the night in a tent far more uncomfortable than rain or lightning, provided the tent has been pitched in a relatively safe location and has adequate drainage so that the rainwater flows away from the tent. When the wind is blowing hard enough to push the sides of the tent in against your sleeping bag, you begin to wonder if the tent will still be there in the morning.
It is interesting how the insects and birds quiet down when there is a storm. They seem to know how to seek out shelter and their normal activities are subdued during thundershowers. What I could hear this morning was simply the thunder and the sound of the raindrops falling.
The rain, of course, is welcome. Despite a severe pounding by hail a week ago, my garden has started to recover. The sunflowers have new leaves, the squash is sporting a new blossom and there is even one tomato starting to turn color. I don’t know if we’ll get a long enough season to harvest tomatoes, but there are some new blossoms on the scraggly plants and perhaps we’ll see some harvest. I’ve been watering the garden with the hose, but it does better with rainwater than well water.
In the security of our home, the rain is a refreshing sound to which to wake. And the thunder wasn’t really loud enough to interrupt my sleep. I woke to the echoing booms and the sound of raindrops. I doubt if there will be very much moisture from this storm, but every drop is precious.
More and more of the people of the world now live in cities where the buildings are climate controlled and the pattern is to sleep with the windows closed to keep from wasting heat or air conditioning and to keep out the sounds of the city. It was different when we lived in Chicago so many years ago. The apartment building where we lived for half of our Chicago years was receiving air conditioning on the day we moved out of the building. Four years of no air conditioning wasn’t a burden for us because we only stayed in the city for one of the summers. The other years we were in the mountains of Montana away from the heat of the city. As a result, I’ve lived in places where open windows for sleeping has been the norm. I’m sure I could make the adjustment, but it would be a challenge for me. I like the sounds of the outside world. I enjoy the crickets who gather around the foundation of the house. I like to wake to the birds. I appreciate the fact that each day is a little different from each other day. I have my routines, to be sure, but I notice the passage of time and the changing of seasons by the sounds and temperatures of the world outside of my bedroom.
For most of human history, people have lived in close relationship with the land and animals. The walled canvas tent of my childhood offered more protection from the weather than some of the structures in which people lived. And we used the tent only for a few nights in the summer. Most of the time we had a sturdy wood-framed house that was well-insulated and had a good furnace to keep us warm in the winter. Sometimes we’d hear stories of our grandfather, who was born in a sod home out on the prairie before his father could complete their house, but we never really could imagine the winter our grandparents spent in that half-buried hovel with only one window. Looking back now, it must have been a long winter and the nights when the winds howled and the snow piled up must have felt very confining.
Somewhere between that way of living and urban isolation, we are fortunate to have a comfortable home where we can sleep with the windows open and the human neighbors far enough away that we can listen to the birds and insects and occasionally be lulled to sleep by a passing shower.
Life is good.