An Apology to Thunder
The uncomfortable depth of all things
Language can corrupt our perceptions when used falsely. Over time we can become numb to the real phenomena that the words are meant to signify and end up reifying the words themselves—such shallow substitutions. This offers us an economy of thought and speech, but with gains in efficiency comes a loss in resolution, for words are only road signs which point the way towards the real objects they stand for. We mustn't lose sight of the ornate reality of things as they are in themselves, unadulterated by language.
Last night, while listening to the lurid symphony of a great tropical storm sweeping over the jungle, I realized that I had been made insensitive to the sound of thunder by the insensitivity of the primary noun used in English to depict it: ‘crash’—as in ‘a crash of thunder.’ For my whole life I’ve been hearing the sound of thunder as a ‘crash’ and failing to hear it for what it really is, uncorrupted. The sound of thunder, actually, is more akin to a ‘wobbling,’ ‘crackling’, ‘trembling,’ or ‘undulation’—or some word we’ve yet to create for it, tailored specifically to the true effect it has on tympanic membranes. ‘Rumble’ is sometimes used, and is far better than ‘crash.’ To me, the word ‘crash’ evokes the ear-splitting, spike-shaped sonogram of a cymbal being struck. Yes, there’s some implied resonance with a cymbal crash, but the sound of thunder is not one bang followed by resonant vibrations. The sound of thunder is like that of wind-chimes the size of mountains made of liquid mercury; it has all the complexity of a thousand large marbles being thrown down a flight of hollow wooden stairs. It is a ten-man tympani ensemble in raucous disagreement as to the time signature. The sound of thunder is decentralized—it comes from a network of moisture-laden air trying to find energetic harmony amongst itself and making no promises of success.
The sound of thunder is rich beyond the confines of terminology—but, then again, so are most things. And we all know that. This note, therefore, is not intended to spite language. It’s not even intended to be entirely about language; language is just the most concise metaphor for the real object of my current focus. When I sat down to write what I really had in my mind was the almost uncomfortable depth of things. Everything, when given sufficient attention, ends up revealing itself to be a bottomless pit one could journey down into endlessly. This is one of the main revelations that any meditation practitioner is bound to have during their first long retreat. The complexity of detail offered to us in this life is truly beyond comprehension—beyond our most impassioned attempts to know anything thoroughly. We run from this complexity by packing everything up into concepts. If the Department of Transportation has a warehouse somewhere where they keep a stock of all their road signs, it might just make for an insightful guided tour.
The true sound of thunder had eluded me for so long. I grew up only ever hearing it as loud crashes, staccato sky-slaps. What else have I failed to view in the full light of the attentive mind? Language may be to blame for this particular instance, but the real problem is that our lives are simply too full of stimuli—we see and hear and feel the world in a manner drastically reduced in resolution in order to avoid overstimulation. I, for one, am not comfortable with the idea of continuing to stumble through this existence blind and deaf to the immaculate beauty of everything that comes across my path. I would rather intimately know a handful of things than to continue being only superficially acquainted with the ten thousand currently flooding past my consciousness on a daily basis. I seek to stop tearing so hurriedly through the endless forms of this world, and to instead sit down and know only the five things dearest to me—and know them well. What might I pick? The tender love of my parents, the goofy and sacred bond I have with my sisters, the enchanting timbre of my lady’s voice, the fragrance of magnolia blossoms, and, perhaps, the sound of thunder. I am content to let the tides of life wash over me with everything just as soon revoked by the tugging of the moon, save for those few things I might actually have the chance to get to know. I’ve been trying in vain for too long to hold onto it all, to experience everything. As the wave of life crests, instead of darting around frantically trying to fathom the myriad forms I would prefer instead to focus my gaze, to pick the few things truly worth attending to and know them intimately.
I am so proud of you, it goes beyond words.