David Abram is a leading American ecophilosopher, storyteller, visionary, and one of America's finest nature writers. In his work, which addresses critical environmental and ecological issues today, he combines the philosophical tradition of phenomenology with the rich lessons of the animist worldview of indigenous cultures. He is the author of The Spell of the Sensuous (1996; in Czech: The magic of the senses(DharmaGaia 2013) and Becoming Animal (2013), whose Czech translation (Jiří Zemánek) is entitled Becoming an animal is currently being published by the Brno-based HOST publishing house. This excerpt is from the eighth chapter of this book, “The Speech of Things / Language I.” (pp. 193-204). An anthology of six of the author’s essays has also been published in Czech. Awakening to the living land (OPS Nymburk 2008).
The paddle cuts through the smooth skin of the water, first on one side, then on the other: whummm… whummm… whummm… whummm… The rhythm is in tune with the calm pace of my breath, as I sway gently from side to side, gliding across the shimmering expanse of sky; the clear vault overhead is perfectly reflected in the glassy surface. Tall, snow-capped mountains rise along the edges of this vast sea, seemingly descending into it. Ahead, to the west, I see the peaks of the Alexander Islands, a long archipelago that lines the southeastern coast of Alaska, and behind me are the glacier-laden peaks of the Coast Range. The smooth speech of the paddle echoes against a silence so vast it rings in my ears. The sky that spans this world is like the inside of a vast silent bell; and the sun above my head is its heart.
Between my kayak and these western slopes, two smaller islands huddle close together. I paddle toward them. I don’t know their names, having never been to this area before. The water ripples in the breeze, then calms down, and the sea is like a mirror again. Whmmmm… wmmmm… wmmmm… Every now and then a different, faster rhythm is heard as a pair of ducks emerge nearby, fluttering just above the water's surface. The thud of their wings against the shallow air grows louder and then fades, their shapes melting away again in the distance on the other side of the kayak.
With each stretch of my arms, the islands draw closer, widening their reach, and soon they fill my entire view with greenery, caressing my ears with the soft splash of water on the rocks. I have a vague feeling that someone is watching me. So I scan the rocky shore and the impenetrable wall of forest above the tide line on both islands, but I see no one. It is only when I catch a flash of white out of the corner of my eye that I notice an eagle perched high on a dead log jutting out from the shore of the northernmost island. Its snow-white head is tilted slightly back—one eye is watching the reflections on the blades of my paddle. And perhaps the flashes on my glasses, because when I turn my face to it, the bird takes off with a few flaps of its huge wings, tilts, and flies across the channel between the two islands. I adjust my course and follow it, sailing under the conifers that grow on both banks. After a while I emerge from the channel. The echo of my paddle strokes bounces off the double wall of trees, spreading and scattering, giving way to a muffled sound that comes from the south, a faint but dissonant cry that grows in intensity and dies down again. Curiosity takes over, so I turn the kayak to the left and start paddling along the western shore of the southernmost island. As I round a small headland, the noise intensifies: it is a kind of deep polyphonic hum whose origin I am unable to determine. As I paddle across the wide bay, the noise dies down, but as I sail around another peninsula, it rises again to my ears; Now it is much more intermittent, and as I listen to the dark music I realize it is a completely organic cacophony, a mixture of shouting, gleeful grunting notes. I pass another cove and the noise fades again. It is only when the kayak slips around another headland and I see a long rocky spit on the other side of the next cove—its jagged terraces and sloping rocks dotted with lots of smooth brown bumps—that I realize I am entering the vicinity of a large sea lion colony.
Strangely enough, when I appear, the brown bodies opposite are mostly silent; only the occasional grunt reaches my ears as they argue among themselves for places on the rocks. I don't see any pups there, so it can't be one of the nesting grounds where the sea lions gather to breed and give birth, but it must be one of their common gathering places. Very popular a gathering place: as I paddle slowly across the bay, I count more than eighty adult sea lions and know there are surely many more that I can’t see. When I look at them through my binoculars, what strikes me most is their sheer size. They are northern or Steller sea lions, much larger than their southern relatives; males, I later learn, can weigh well over a ton and measure over three meters in length. As I kayak closer, I see some of them staring intently in my direction. About halfway across the bay, one such male stands on his flippers on a rocky platform near the water, bobs his head several times, and begins to roar in a deep, guttural voice that resonates in the cavity of the kayak and echoes inside my skull. Soon two other large males, lying on the ledge a little higher up, lift their bodies and also begin to scream; and within a few moments it seems as if every sea lion on the rocky outcrop is uttering its own barbaric roar. The loud noise unsettles me greatly, and I feel a wave of fear rise up my spine. I put down my paddle and, in an attempt to suppress the panic that is coming, I do the only thing I can think of, the only sensible thing that might ease the tension of this encounter: I begin to sing.
—–
I learned this reaction to animal threats a few years ago when I was cross-country skiing along a snowy stream in the northern Rockies; I came out of the woods and into a small frozen swamp—and suddenly I found myself three ski lengths from a mother moose. She was grazing with her calf among the low willows. The moose looked up, as startled as I was; she stood directly in front of me, her nostrils flared, her front legs tense, and her head bent forward. Her eyes were fixed on my body, one ear listening toward me while the other was turned back, watching the movements of her calf. My senses were on high alert, but I was not afraid, or even alarmed; I took a deep breath and then found myself making a single long, melodic note, a musical call in the middle of my vocal range, and holding it in pitch and volume for as long as I could. As my voice died away, I felt the moose's muscles relax. I took another breath and sang the same note, relaxing my body and putting as much lightness into the tone as I could. In a moment the moose lowered its head and began to nibble carelessly on the willow twigs. I made one last sound with that flowing note and then finally pushed myself away with my sticks and slipped on.
It was only as I drove through the forest that my thinking mind slowly began to realize that what I had done was absolutely appropriate. For the sound of a human voice singing a single, steady note carries a wealth of information to those whose ears are tuned to such cues—information about the internal state of various organs in the singer's body, as well as the relative tension or relaxation of the person in question, the degree of aggression or peacefulness.
—–
And so, as I kayaked, assaulted by a chorus of deafening grunts coming from throats big enough to swallow me in a few swallows, I found myself singing back. Although this time it wasn’t a melodious note. If I had responded in a soft, calm tone, the sea lions wouldn’t have heard me over their own roars, and there was no way I could have coaxed such a soothing note out of my already terrified body. The musical note I was making was as loud and guttural as I could muster; I tilt my head back to open my throat as wide as possible and let out a deep roar: “Aaarrrrggghhh… Aaarrrrggghhh… Aaarrrrggghhh…” I stretch each guttural howl as long as I can, and as I pause to take a deep breath, I notice with astonishment that the sea lions have stopped purring. I lower my head to look at them; they are stretching toward me and sniffing, jostling each other to get the best view of the large, brightly colored duck that can make such a terrifying noise. My ears pick up the sound of fifty or sixty noses sniffing and snorting (and sometimes sneezing) as they sniff the wind. My own nostrils can barely distinguish the thickly mixed smells of salt mist, sea lion breath, and thick floating kelp, so I grab my paddle and paddle like a madman closer to the seals. My own animal curiosity has overcome my reason; I can’t help but be captivated by the proximity of these breathing bodies, so strangely related to my own body and yet so different from it. As I weave my kayak through the kelp, the smell of sea lions grows stronger. And when I get about ten meters from the rocks, the big male on the lower ledge—the same male who initiated the whole alarm—lifts himself up on his flippers and starts screaming again. He is quickly joined by several others, and by the time I put my paddle down on the kayak, almost all the sea lions are screaming for their lives. So I take a breath, gather my strength, and am about to launch my own guttural sermon again when the water surface starts bubbling right between me and the sea lions. First small bubbles, then larger ones, and then the water suddenly rises, and bang! without any further warning, a gargantuan body shoots through the surface toward the sky—flying on outstretched wings that, as I stare wide-eyed, transform into the outstretched pectoral fins of a humpback whale. The whale flips almost belly up in midair and crashes back into the water, splashing me and kicking up a huge wave that spills over the hull of the kayak, knocking the paddle out of my hand and almost carrying it away before I catch it at the last moment and pull it back in. The long folds of the humpback whale’s belly slowly form beneath the surface in front of the kayak… and then the whale is gone.
I grab my paddle and start backing up desperately, thinking the giant might tip me over, but in a moment I realize that I have no idea what the whale is up to or where in the depths it is right now. So I strap the paddle across the hull of the kayak, grip it firmly with both hands, and just wait. After a minute I hear the sounds of tiny bubbles, and before I can find them, the water to my left begins to boil, then rises, and before I can prepare myself, the huge mass breaks the surface like a feverish hallucination—barely ten feet from the kayak—this time on its right side up and parallel to the boat, even as it dives in the opposite direction; it flaps its enormous pectoral fins, then falls back to the surface. The resulting wave hits my boat from the side, nearly capsizing me, but I swing sharply to the left and come back up to see an incongruously small, almost human eye staring at me just above the surface. The whale snorts, and the wind blows the spray into my face, soaking my already-soaked body, and then the intoxicating scent of its breath washes over me. “Like a canal,” I think at first, but then it hits me, “What a blessing to be breathing humpback whale breath!” The intensity of the smell rips through my neurons as the giant apparition slides back down, and only a fleeting glimpse of its slender dorsal fin is visible before the creature disappears beneath the surface.
I'm dazed, my whole body shaking—the visual field around the kayak is shaking as I try to calm the shaking in my muscles. It feels as if a great god of the deep has just stepped between me and the sea lions, surfacing as a warning, as if to say: Do not come too close, mortal, to these brothers of mine! Unable to suppress my trembling, I lower my head to offer a murmured prayer of thanks to these waters—but I raise it abruptly again when there is a loud SPLASH! My eyes widen in shock. The sea lions, clearly agitated by the visit of the humpback god, begin to throw themselves en masse from the rocks. They slide down from the higher cliffs and wobble to the shore, where they dive into the water in droves; they plunge into the surf, disappear among the waves, and immediately reappear, rising above the surface and with a mighty guttural roar, they run direct to me!
They are approaching so fast that I cannot escape them: after all, the sea is their primary element, not the usual environment of this clumsy stranger trying to maneuver here in his plastic prosthetic body. I do not know whether it was wisdom or madness that led my animal organism to do what I did next. Of course, there are not many options and there is no time to think, so my consciousness only watches in confusion as my arms fly above my head and I begin to dance in the kayak. More precisely, my erect, tense arms begin to wave from side to side, my wrists and outstretched fingers swing in an arc to the right, then to the left, then to the right, left, right, left, right...
As soon as I start gesturing like this, the roaring sea lions retreat back into the water and fall silent, their heads turning from side to side as their eyes follow my hands. Unbelievable! Seventy or eighty serious, staring mammal faces turn back and forth, back and forth, over and over again. And all in perfect synchronization like some half-submerged dance troupe. After a few minutes, I lower my hands and grab the paddle—but the sea lions immediately start roaring and rushing forward. No! My hands fly back and start dancing again, my tense arms flailing left, then right, then left again, while the bearded crowd falls silent again, nodding their necks from side to side, over and over again.
My hands continue their ritual, and the kayak rocks back and forth. As I think about the situation, my initial joyous relief at finding a way to save my skin gradually turns to deep dismay. I have no idea how to get out of this situation.
Whenever I even hint that I want to lower my hands, the dark-eyed crowd immediately rushes forward—so stopping the dance is out of the question. I consider my position from every possible angle, but I can't find any escape strategy. So I hold my hands high, sway from side to side, and smile uncertainly at the attentive bearded faces, while the muscles in my arms become more and more exhausted. After a long time, the pain in my shoulders becomes unbearable; I can't even think anymore. My right arm is useless.
I slowly lower it while my left hand keeps the rhythm. The seals, swaying from side to side, now focus on the single, swaying metronome of my left arm. My right shoulder is resting for the time being. Something strikes me. I keep my eyes on the seals as I try to feel the handle of the paddle with the fingers of my right hand. When I find it, I lift it slightly and hold it from underneath, balancing it as best I can. Then, awkwardly, while my left arm swings from side to side overhead, I cross my right arm over my chest and begin to paddle on my left side as best I can, scraping the heavy paddle against the left side of the kayak to gain some traction. I do it all blindly, my eyes still fixed on the interlocking faces of the seals, and my left hand keeps waving overhead. Slowly and with all my strength, I manage to maneuver the kayak around the right wing of the floating crowd with this clumsy rowing. When most of the sea lions are behind me, I lower my left hand, grip the paddle with both hands, and begin hard paddling out into the open sea without looking back. After seven or eight minutes I sneak a look behind me: a few sea lions are still following me, but at a respectful distance and above the surface, not much more than their noses can be seen...
—–
Something about that tense encounter changed me. I sometimes notice it when I’m playing with my two children or when I’m woken up in the middle of the night by the howling of coyotes. Confronting the marine mammals made clear to me something fundamental about language that was very different from what I had been taught in school and college. I had been taught that meaningful speech was the feature that most clearly distinguished us humans from all other animals. We have this meaningful speech that other creatures don’t. But my disturbing encounter with the humpback whale and the troop of sea lions showed me something else. It showed me—in a way I could no longer ignore—that there is a primal language that we bipeds share with other species.
When we talk about “language,” we are talking about the ability to communicate, the ability to convey information across space and time, the means by which beings who are far apart can convey their current feelings or thoughts. As humans, we rely on a complex network of distinctive spoken sounds to communicate, so it is natural that we associate language with this verbal interaction. Unfortunately, this association has led many to believe that language is an exclusive attribute of our species—after all, we are the only creatures that use words—and to conclude that all other organisms lack meaningful speech. But this is an extremely self-centered assumption.
Other animals, which usually have much sharper senses than we do, may have much less need to use a purely conventional set of signs when communicating with other members of their species or when obtaining information from other species. My encounter with sea creatures introduced me to a much older and deeper layer of language than words. It was a dimension of expressive meanings that were directly felt by the body, a realm in which speech alone the body—in the tonality and rhythm of its sounds, in its gestures, and in the expressive potency of its posture, its balance. The almost catastrophic confrontation threw me into a space of sincere communication, into a bodily zone of expression that is widely shared by all species. It was a dimension in which my verbal self was almost absent, but where an older, animal consciousness came to the fore, responding to the gestures of these other animals quite spontaneously, with almost no additional explanation from my “inner” reasoning mind. It was more as if my body itself were thinking, exchanging vocal expressions and bodily expressions with these smooth-haired and sensitive creatures. Their fins were clearly shaped for life in a fluid medium that was very different from my primary element, yet we were able to readily exchange the most basic feelings of threat, calm, or pleasure—through the tension or relaxation of various muscles in conjunction with the tones of our vocal sounds—based on our shared existence as kinetic and sonorous beings inhabiting the same biosphere.
Sure, we were all mammals—the sea lions, the whale, and I—yet I felt there was an even more basic commonality or belonging of bodies, even a communication shared with the waves that shudder beneath the kayak and splash their speech on the rocks. For a fully bodied animal, it can be any gesture movement and any Sound can be a voice, a meaningful expression of the world. And therefore everything speaks to my own human body!
Certain sounds that reach our ears speak of the felt intentions of others, while other, more rumbling sounds reveal a change in the weather. A gurgling sequence of whistling notes expresses the exuberant joy felt by a thrush as the sun rises above the horizon, while other notes speak of the dark magic of the night itself, speaking with the hiss of tires on wet pavement.
Our human conversations are regularly influenced by this bodily layer of language—the apparent meaning of a friend's sentence changes with the pace of her speech. The tone of speech can shift without any of us noticing, as a crack in the winter clouds allows the sun to spill its song over the muted hues of the city street where we are standing, or as a sudden argument of honking cars escalates on the same street.
I began to notice this animal dimension of my own speech; I was now aware not only of the conventional meaning of my expressions, but also of the raspy or euphoric melody that constantly echoes in my sentences, and the dance my body engages in as I speak—of undisguised wonder or despondent surrender, of alert cunning or relaxed indifference. When I try to express a new insight, I feel with my whole body how I am approaching the right sentence; I am drawn to certain expressions according to how their texture vaguely entices my senses, I choose words according to how they correspond to the shape of that insight, or according to how they taste on my tongue as I intonate them one after the other. And the ability of that spoken sentence to evoke thoughts and insights in the people around me will depend on the tone of my speech, on how it fits with the collective mood, or whether it just scratches their ears. Such was the linguistic dimension into which my encounter with those sea lions transported me. — an initiation that was burned into my memory by the shock of being overwhelmed by a humpback whale or exchanging stinking breath with that savage intelligence. Today I find myself much more permeable to other shapes, more receptive to smooth tabletops and spotted dogs, more aware of how my animal body converses with other bodies around me, how tense it is in certain office buildings and how it relaxes in dialogue with adobe walls. I noticed the skin on my skull tighten under the buzzing fluorescent light, and once, while riding my bike, I felt the muscles in my shoulders open and expand as a red-tailed hawk soared from a telephone pole I passed. I became increasingly aware of how much my voice borrowed the fluctuating tone of the person I was speaking to, or, conversely, took on the staccato hardness of his syllables, and I noticed that he too was being infected by the modulations. my voice, so that every conversation is also a kind of singing to each other, like two blackbirds exchanging riffs among the cattails — or like two humpback whales sending their eerie glissandos back and forth through the depths.