From Noise to Nuances

When I moved into a slower rhythm of living, I didn’t expect my senses to change. But they did quietly, almost imperceptibly, until one day I realized that the world around me felt sharper, fuller, more alive. It was kind of a refreshing feeling.

Without the constant distractions of television, films, traffic, and loud music, I have simply begun to notice more. Small sounds stand out now: the flutter of a bird’s wing just before it takes flight, the crisp rustle of dry leaves as a garden lizard darts across, even the faint hum of bees moving from flower to flower in the orchard. These sounds were always there, but I wasn’t listening. My ears had been too crowded to listen. The change has become obvious in unexpected ways. I used to mow my lawn with a powered mower without thinking twice; now I find the noise overwhelming unless I wear ear muffs. (As it turns out, they are recommended for most power tools anyway, a precaution I had been ignoring all along.) Even phone conversations feel different. Along with voices, I now notice the background details: birds chirping, the clatter of utensils in a kitchen, the rise and fall of someone’s breath. These little sounds add texture, making even a brief call more alive and fulfilling. Still, nothing compares to speaking with someone in person, where the unspoken often carries more than words.

The same has happened with people. Since I no longer spend time in large crowds, my attention naturally rests on the individual before me. And it’s surprising how much a person communicates without speaking. A hesitation before words form, the firmness or softness in their gaze, the way their shoulders relax or stiffen, I now notice these subtleties as clearly as I hear spoken language. Most conversations feel almost wordless these days, guided more by presence than by sentences. Earlier, I would pick up on simple cues like sensing a certain insecurity when someone kept their shades on while talking. But now I find myself catching even the expressions a person tries, often unsuccessfully, to conceal. In conversations too, it is not only what is said that matters, but what lingers between the lines.

This shift has also changed the way I connect with people who come to stay at our homestay. Our conversations feel richer, layered with more than just talk of travel, food, or weather. They often open into gentle truths, cherished memories, fleeting moments of joy, and the small treasures people quietly carry within them. It is these unspoken layers that seem to leave the deepest imprint often more lasting than the words themselves. At times, I sense their pain as well, but unless they choose to share it, I let it be, respecting the silences they wish to keep.

Coming to yet another sense – I have gradually stopped using strong perfumes, and even my toiletries are now almost free of overpowering artificial scents. Freed from those layers, my sense of smell feels more open, more curious. I always loved the fragrance of wet leaves in a forest, but now I can tell the difference — the damp, earthy aroma of an oak forest is not the same as the resinous freshness of a pine grove. Even within my own orchard, each corner speaks in its own scent. The sweetness of ripening fruit, the delicate fragrance of wildflowers, and then, carried on a sudden gust of wind, the heady freshness of acacia blossoms. Rain too has its own variations: the scent of winter showers is different from the rains of autumn. The moist winter air seems to hold its own quiet perfume. By going mindful and shedding distractions, I find myself living inside these fragrances rather than just passing through them. The world, it seems, always had these notes to offer. I just need to relearn how to breathe them in.

Has it affected my taste buds too? Absolutely. I’ve grown a quiet aversion to most prepackaged foods. They taste either too sweet or strangely artificial. Yet, I must admit, my weakness for salty snacks still lingers. Put a packet of Kurkure, Lays, or Pringles in front of me and I’ll keep munching away, even while knowing they’re far from healthy and nearly impossible to stop once begun. In my kitchen, though, things have changed. I use far less salt and fewer spices than I once did, letting the natural flavor of fresh ingredients speak for themselves. And when it comes to drinks, nothing compares to a glass of cool, fresh spring water, especially after some hard work in the orchard. I do still enjoy fresh fruit juices and the occasional beers. However, when it comes to beers, the company matters!

I find myself pausing to savor the smallest sensations: the delicate drizzle washing over my face, the gentle tickle of grass beneath my bare feet, the warmth of sunlight resting softly on my skin, especially in winter, when even the faintest rays feel magnetic, drawing me toward them as if I could soak up every ounce of light. These are such simple experiences, often overlooked in the rush of daily life, yet they hold a quiet joy when noticed fully. I am learning to linger in these moments, to let them speak to me. Even the ordinary touch of rain or earth feels like a gift.

I am no ascetic, and I do not live a life of strict discipline, yet I feel quietly grateful for what slow living and mindfulness have brought me. Some of my friends have offered valuable insights, and certain things I once took for granted like the flavour of fresh fruits or quietness of nights have gained new significance after being pointed out by my guests. It is as if all my senses had been patiently waiting for me to slow down, to finally give them space to breathe. The world itself hasn’t changed but I definitely have, or am trying to. And in this gentler rhythm, every sound, every glance, every gesture carries more weight, more subtle meaning, more life than I ever noticed before.

Click here for all related posts – Browse my blog on slow and sustainable living !