There are sounds a house makes. The wood creaks and moans at night relaxing from a day spent in the sun. The phantom porch swing gently squeaks as the Santa Anas sweep through the valley. The cabinets shut, the dishwasher hums, and the dryer softly clatters from the buttons on my jeans.
Then there are the noises of living. Noises of comfort. When I was a child, these were the noises that carried me to sleep – sounds of my mom doing the dishes and sprinkling Comet in the sink every night; my dad turning the pages of the newspaper and turning on the television. The sound of a shower turning on at the start of the day or of eggs frying in a pan. The way a doorbell sounded or a car pulling in the driveway. Conversations and murmurs and to-do lists all the same drifting through my cracked door and into my childhood.
These sounds make up the every day nuances of life. Sounds I never thought were important until recently. It occurred to me this week that now I am the one making the sounds. Nate does the dishes; I type on a keyboard; we watch Arrested Development (yes, again). And to be a sound maker is to be a memory maker.
The memories we carry with us, even the the ‘click’ sound of the dishwasher detergent dispenser, shape a home. As homes become more and more siloed off as people disappear into devices, I want to be intentional about the noise we make. Even more important, the noise we make together. For sure, there will be computers and television at certain points, this is not a soap box about changing the world. I just can’t remember what I saw on Facebook yesterday, yet, I know the noise of my mom’s slippers on the tile floor, and I moved out almost 15 years ago.
The every day. The tiny little minutia moments. They do mean something. Maybe not a lot at first, but compiled over time, they translate into home.