{"id":11663,"date":"2008-07-31T07:37:00","date_gmt":"2008-07-31T07:37:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/production.ou.org\/life\/other\/the_saddest_noise_the_sweetest_noise\/"},"modified":"2015-10-29T10:37:55","modified_gmt":"2015-10-29T15:37:55","slug":"the_saddest_noise_the_sweetest_noise","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.ou.org\/life\/inspiration\/the_saddest_noise_the_sweetest_noise\/","title":{"rendered":"The Saddest Noise, the Sweetest Noise"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"image\"<\/div>\n

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,<\/i><\/p>\n

The maddest noise that grows,<\/i><\/p>\n

The birds, they make it in the spring<\/i><\/p>\n

At night\u2019s delicious close.<\/i><\/p>\n

Between the March and April line,<\/p>\n

That magical frontier<\/p>\n

Beyond which summer hesitates,<\/p>\n

Almost too heavenly near\u2026<\/p>\n

The 19th century poet Emily Dickinson penned these lines in the early-American, churchgoing town of Amherst, Massachusetts –surely a time and place as far away as one can get from the Middle East, and from the 21st century\u2019s Jewish State. But every year as summer approaches, those words have come to life again in the mind of this Jerusalemite. That\u2019s when hundreds of blackbirds have resumed their incredible twice-daily sessions in the tall old tree outside our 4th floor apartment.<\/p>\n

We\u2019ve been anticipating the sight and sound of them for a few weeks now, ever since the first tiny buds emerged on the elderly tree\u2019s outstretched gray limbs. Once all those dry-boned branches bloomed into one great green whispering head, a profusion of shimmering newborn leaves, we knew the blackbirds\u2019 arrival couldn\u2019t be far behind, and that soon they\u2019d be singing each other their old sweet song.<\/p>\n

But yesterday morning at 9 a.m., it was the buzzing grate of a chainsaw that assaulted our ears, and now, a few hours later, just plain blue sky in our windows. The tree\u2019s gone.<\/p>\n

* * *<\/center>\u2026It makes us think of what we had,<\/i><\/p>\n

And what we now deplore.<\/i><\/p>\n

We almost wish those siren throats<\/i><\/p>\n

Would go, and sing no more\u2026<\/i><\/p>\n

This is how it was: if I was out on the porch watering the plants or reading the paper on my rocking chair, either very early in the morning or late in the afternoon, first there\u2019d be a single caw<\/i>, then out of the corner of my eye a few fast black shadows and then — in the half-light of dawn or the half-light of dusk \u2013 a rustle of wings and a fluttering, and another shadow, and another, and before I knew it, appearing out of the blue from every direction, as the sun rose or the stars came out, cawing blackbirds cycling around grandly overhead before coming in for a landing somewhere inside the tree. They vanished in its leaves and branches like pebbles sinking in a pond, yet the caw-caw-cawing <\/i>would swell progressively louder and louder until the world was full of their raucous banter. What a racket they made — the inscrutable, happy, ridiculously manic quacking of a thousand loquacious winged creatures. The noise would get louder and louder and then all of a sudden you\u2019d realize that somehow, when you weren\u2019t paying attention, it had ceased entirely, and the mysterious half-light had been replaced by day or by night.<\/p>\n

What were they telling each other, with all that calling and answering and answering and calling, and how did they know when it was time each day to congregate? A friend suggested with a laugh that maybe they were dovening<\/i> their morning and evening prayers — as charming an explanation as any in the face of unanswerable questions.<\/p>\n

What really prompted the municipality to come cut down the tree will probably also remain a mystery. When I dashed downstairs to protest, I frantically asked two Arab workers what was going on. \u201cPruning,\u201d they replied. \u201cWe do it every year.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it\u2019s the shmittah<\/i>!\u201d That\u2019s the sabbatical year, currently being observed throughout the country, during which it\u2019s forbidden by the Torah to cultivate the land of Israel.<\/p>\n

They shrugged.<\/p>\n

\u201cWho\u2019s in charge?\u201d They gestured to a thin, mustachioed middle-aged fellow in jeans standing over to the side, sipping a cup of something. I ran. \u201cYou can\u2019t do this!\u201d I cried. He regarded me coolly, with the look that says, you crazy American<\/i>. Overhead, high up on an extension ladder, the buzz-saw was unrelenting. Long branches full of buds and small leaves were dropping heavily to the grass.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s shmittah<\/i> year!\u201d My voice had gotten louder. \u201cZe assur<\/i>!\u201d [That\u2019s forbidden!]<\/p>\n

He was drinking his tea.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not allowed! That tree\u2019s so beautiful! It gives us shade in the summertime! Please! Stop it!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re sent by the municipality, madam.\u201d<\/p>\n

The branches continued dropping like weights.<\/p>\n

At this moment there was a loud yell and I turned. Hurrying towards us across the yard was Mr. O., one of our Israeli neighbors, tefillin<\/i> bag under his arm, on his way home from synagogue.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d he shouted from afar. \u201cZe assur<\/i>!\u201d<\/p>\n

Suffice it to say that his great cry of pain \u2013 ignored by the overseer — was the saddest noise, the sweetest noise, the maddest noise that grows, and the finest sound I could have heard at that moment.<\/p>\n

An ear can break a human heart<\/i><\/p>\n

As quickly as a spear.<\/i><\/p>\n

We wish the ear had not a heart<\/i><\/p>\n

So dangerously near.<\/i><\/p>\n

He stood in protest under the extension ladder, even after one of the large branches struck him. He stood his ground, though it was to no avail. By the time the rabbi of the neighborhood arrived and persuaded the man in charge to stop, the tree was in a huge pile on the grass.<\/p>\n

Later, Mr. O\u2019s wife told me that she\u2019d called the municipality and was told that last fall, a couple renting in the building for a year had called to complain about the overhanging branches but at the time, the municipality hadn\u2019t had access to a high enough ladder. Then a biologist had examined the tree and determined that it was sick. That\u2019s why the municipality took action now.<\/p>\n

\u201cSick?\u201d I protested suspiciously. \u201cIt looked perfectly healthy to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2018I know!\u201d said Mrs. O. \u201cI told them! I told them what a nice tree it was, and that it was one of the only bits of nature we have. They said they didn\u2019t know we cared and that they\u2019d be more careful in the future. But she said the biologist says branches can still look healthy even when there\u2019s a virus down in the trunk.\u201d<\/p>\n

So now I\u2019m left unsure. Who\u2019s to blame \u2013 perhaps only the same agent responsible for the melting of the ice caps on both poles, and the global phenomenon called \u201ccolony collapse,\u201d whereby bees are simply leaving their hives and disappearing, and the strange, undiagnosed malady affecting bats in America. The New York Times recently reported that bats are flying blindly out of their hibernation caves and dying in the light \u2013 an unprecedented abnormality.<\/p>\n

In the face of all this, all I can say is thank you, Emily. Unlike so many other things, words are forever young. They can bring even birdsong, even a tree, to life again in our minds.<\/p>\n

\n

Sarah Shapiro’s most recent books are<\/i> “Wish I Were Here” [Artscroll], and<\/i> “The Mother in Our Lives”[Targum\/Feldheim]. Sarah Shapiro teaches writing in Israel and the United States.<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, The maddest noise that grows, The birds, they make it in the spring At night\u2019s delicious close. Between the March and April line, That magical frontier Beyond which summer hesitates, Almost too heavenly near\u2026 The 19th century poet Emily Dickinson penned these lines in the early-American, churchgoing town of<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":129,"featured_media":43936,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[85],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11663","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-inspiration"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Saddest Noise, the Sweetest Noise<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"All I can say is thank you Emily. Unlike so many other things words are forever young. 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