The Reverie

Someone asked me the other day about how I listen to nature. This is a great question and I could not easily answer it on the spot. This question has been rumbling around my mind for a few days now. I have come to realize that I am almost always listening to nature, or trying to. It might be the distant caw-caw of crows, perhaps the sounds that pigeons make as they whoosh and flutter when taking off from sidewalks, or maybe the rustling of leaves on a windy day.  These semi-regular occurrences of listening to nature can happen every day, in city or country, during a quick walk to your car or when standing in line for a bus. They can be in the depth of winter (trees crack and groan under extreme cold!) and even above the din of rush hour. Nature always talks and it’s not hard to hear its voices. 

the distant crow cries

startling in perfection

a song for all time

The internet and the apps on our phones provide other ways to practice the act of listening to nature. I was recently given a link to frog sounds of Quebec as a way to start to train my ear so I can recognize their calls (I am planing on taking part in a monitoring project this spring in some local wetlands). I decided to click away on the links for a while and immediately was transported to those wetlands even though I was sitting in my office during a deep freeze in mid-January. It was time travel, and space-travel, facilitated by the speakers on my computer. You can also click through bird sounds online, or listen to past recordings you may have made, taking you to past efforts trying to learn backyard birds. You can easily head down a rabbit hole on YouTube to catch sounds (and videos) of tranquil places filled with babbling brooks and the ambiance of tropical forests. 

Listening to nature be the anticipation of sounds. This might be seeing the V-formation of geese in the distance, and readying oneself for their honking as they approach and pass overheard. It might be anticipating the buzz of mosquitoes in your ear just before heading out for a walk in the woods mid-summer. Later today, for example, I am heading to the St Lawrence Seaway to catch the snow geese assembling there as they head north. I can anticipate the symphony of their calls. It could also be preparing yourself for that incoming thunder storm in summer – the really intense ones that build up all day and your entire being knows that soon the rumbles will start, approach, and CRACK all around; the howling winds and sideways rainfall. The truly wild and ferocious weather that shakes the entire house and causes the dog to scurry and tremble. 

the storm approaches

shaking our foundations

ozone in the air

The mind and memory are so powerful, and sounds are so deeply embedded in our subconscious, that you can listen to nature in your mind, and this can take you places and perhaps bring peace and joy. You can imagine the sounds of a wolf howling even if you are sitting on a commuter train. It is a superpower you possess.  Although I have not lived in Alberta for over 20 years, I can immediately recall the gentle rustling of trembling aspens in the boreal forests north of Edmonton. 

Listening with nature is more difficult and requires patience, care, and the setting becomes important. These are the rare moments (at least for me!) when you can sit quietly outside and fully open your ears, mind, and body. You can breath slowly and open up to nature’s embrace and hear its more subtle voices. It can be dockside on a warm summer afternoon, relaxing in the forest mid-way through a hike, or taking time to close your eyes while finishing lunch on a park bench. These are the moments when you catch the tiny chirp chirps of tree-top warblers, the tip-toeing of squirrels as they navigate leaf-fall and cache their horde, or perhaps the fall of frass* from caterpillars overhead. I must strive to listen with nature more often. 

sit in the forest

on a verdant bed of moss

enduring kindness 

Listening to nature is larger than the sensory definition of listening. Listening is about the stories of nature that you are part of, you learn about, you teach about. They are a narrative and you can be the narrator or recipient of the stories told, or the memory of the story. You can surely reflect the basic plot line of your favourite book, movie, or television series. Your memory can re-create the main arch of the story and the cast of characters. You can see them, visualize the dramatic scenes, and the climax. The story of the earth, its ecosystems, its species and their histories, is a sweeping tale larger than any novel you have read. You can learn about this story, write, draw or photograph snippets of it, and play it back to yourself whenever you want. You can listen to this story of our planet. It’s quite compelling and dramatic, with a plot that is still unfolding. 

this ancient story

ferociously unfolding

the earth gently breathes

The question, then, about how to listen to nature is complex and multi-layered and so much more than the obvious answer of: “I listen and register when I hear the sounds of nature”. It is about the interplay of the living and the non-living world; the ways that our built-up landscape intersects with wild lands. It’s about big animals, small creatures, plants, and the ways the flora and fauna changes through the day, with weather and seasons, and because of us and in spite of us. It is the stories that you have been told, the stories you are writing, and the stories unfolding; you can listen to these if you open yourself to it. It’s more poignant, bittersweet, tragic, and beautiful that you could ever imagine. 

Listening to nature is, simply put, one of the greatest gifts. That’s why I find myself trying to listen all the time. It brings me authentic hope and gratitude. This is what I need to stay grounded and tethered in a world that is unravelling. 

*frass is insect poop. There you have it. 

© Christopher M Buddle 2025