09/25/2026
Thundering Silence
Anyone who has horses and truly loves to be in their presence will tell you: they love the sound of a horse munching hay in the barn. It is a rhythmic, contented sound. Some afternoons I will crouch on the stall floor next to Vidalia as she chews and reach to scratch the cowlick in the center of her forehead. Outside is a stuttering call of the Phoebe and around me is the organic scent of hay dust, wood shavings and horseflesh. Things seem right with the world at such times. The barn is quiet; I am silent as well. And in that sound of silence, the world’s chatter drains away.
A person’s mindful sense of quiet was described as “thundering silence” by Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh: it is deep and powerful, like thunder. It is a time when impressions become vivid and memorable, when one can enjoy and appreciate things, and the mind and body experiences a reset.
I left Vidalia to her hay one afternoon this week, started out on the barn’s trail, and experienced such mindfulness among the goldenrods and asters. A few years ago, the Stacked Stone Trail was clear and wide; now stems of goldenrod rose to my waist in places. Calico asters were in full display, lining the trail’s edge and venturing to its middle with the goldenrods. I couldn’t see the prickly stems of dewberry snaking on the ground, invading the trail, so that more than once I caught my toes and nearly tripped.
But what most struck me was the sound – of hundreds (thousands?) of bees, mostly honeybees. The steady hum was more than something I could hear; it was also something I felt. The vibrations, as I walked through the flowers, and brushing (I am sure) the bees this way and that, reached my core. It was a strangely comfortable experience. It is widely recognized that bees’ natural steady low frequency hum produces a calming effect on our nervous systems. The purr of cats, another example of continuous vibrations, has a similar effect.
I imagine humans in their earliest evolution, when they were relatively silent and before they possessed fully developed languages, listened intently to animals’ voices and sounds. Bird songs and calls are considered a trigger for human relaxation, a dynamic as old as birds and humans themselves. Birds vocalize when safe, and humans learned to become calm in the presence of singing birds. The rhythmic chirping of crickets was also felt as calming and soothing. They could blanket loud, wild or disturbing night sounds and promote sleep. Their early name was in fact derived from the comforting sound they make.
My silent walkthrough bees on the barn’s trail was the start; the remainder of the walk was spent in NEECA’s early successional field and arena area. I poked among the goldenrods and asters, the Bracken and Hay-scented ferns, and saplings of pioneer trees such as aspen and birch. I found milkweed growing out of the arena’s retaining wall. The sun was warm on my back, but the air was cool, there was a breeze, and grasshoppers were everywhere. The only sound was the clacking of the hoppers when they flew, and the bees of course.
Back at the barn, and chores, there was a last thing – the thirteenth cupcake of the baker’s dozen. As I picked the paddock, a Mourning Cloak butterfly set down in the manurey spot I was picking. But this butterfly called the Harbinger of Spring was more the harbinger of winter. Shortly it would be nestled in its hibernaculum until it emerged in March, flying low on the path above the remains of snow. It is a sight I anticipate when we are in winter’s lighter grip - when I walk alone on the trail, silent and cold, and remember warmer times. Golden times, when silence is broken only by the hum of bees.
