Even the quietest settings have a soundtrack. At work, it’s the drone of phone conversations, the poking of keyboards, and clearing of throats. On a fall morning, it’s the song of that lingering bird, the straggler in the annual migratory flight, the crackling of leaves beneath your feet, and the occasional car passing. In yoga, even in the absence of the instructor’s voice, it’s the repositioning of hands on the sticky mat, and deep, mindful breathing.
But the simplest soundtrack that I have known is the soundtrack of the desert. In the desert, the only barrier between you and silence is you. True, there’s the soft whistle of wind that travels through the harsh and vast rock and sand terrain. But even that sound seems to blend, becoming part of the scenery.
I had returned to Israel this time, as an adult. I didn’t come back to Israel expecting a religious awakening. I stood like a stone wall at the Western Wall the first time my tour group visited. But the second time, as I put my prayers into the wall, I started crying. It wasn’t a religious experience so much as finally being about to put my thoughts, hopes, and worries into words, even if those thoughts were transcribed quickly, with a borrowed pen.
But it was truly in the Negev, for just a few minutes when my group walked in relative quietude that I felt some escape from my mind’s anxiety. While my mind was quiet, I felt the sweat escape my pores and the sun on my skin. My eyes took in the hills of sandy rock, dotted with the occasional ipex, a sort of desert goat. There were no fences between me and miles and miles of blue skies and desert.
