I’m not deaf, yet auditory waves on occasion leave me dry and uncertain whether I’ve arrived at the beach of sound.
Someone recently suggested an app that increases the volume of various applications, and in its first use I unexpectedly cried like a baby.
Not only because I could hear more clearly, but because I didn’t know such a simple solution existed.
Loss of hearing has been a steady degradation, starting with the pummeling of my ear drums as a child. Standard hearing tests back then were held in a room with other children, and I passed them from sheer mimic alone. When they raised their hand, I raised mine, and when they put them down, I did the same. I never told anyone about the ringing, because I didn’t want to explain it started with being hit, or why, because even now, I can’t remember why.
As an adult, I’d get tested and fail, then sent to specialists who would perform excruciatingly painful examinations that I remained silent about. I never told anyone about the pain, because I didn’t want to explain that I was capable of being hurt, or why, because even now, I can’t remember why.
I’d get sent to surgeons, whose examinations would cause such pain that my tears betrayed me in their exposure. They would stop, explain the damage and the options. I would leave and not return, because it required me to hear those first punches.
The sound of insignificance can kill a person, and I didn’t want to die, so preferred to listen with consuming intensity instead.
What I learned from that experience is how much a person can positively impact a life, by not just observing or acknowledging another’s pain, but by actively providing relief with whatever pieces of wisdom already exists within.
We’re not all doctors, but Sound Love is the credential that makes all of us healers.