Then, about sixteen minutes into recording, I notice a faint gurgling, like the last remnants of water disappearing down a plug hole. The sound getting slowly louder and more distinct, until it reaches a point where I hear it close enough for me to be worried about the safety of the hydrophones and my recorder, to which they are securely attached.

I often enjoy the lack of patterning and the small surprises inherent in aleatoric music. On this occasion, however, the lack of patterning in the toy’s movements, left me feeling empty.

It’s interesting that I feel more at peace listening to church services from the outside than the inside these days (well at least on warmer, sunnier days!).

Working with, rather than against, the natural affordances of the mind-body and the soundscape, moves the practice of contemplative field recording in the direction of connection, flexibility and freedom, “…to simply do exactly what we are doing, to do it wholly and selflessly, spontaneously and without any separation from it.”

With time there can grow a confidence in navigating our relationships silently, appreciating the subtleties of body language and enjoying the depth of connection that can come when we do not reduce the world to words.

I placed the portable recorder on the communion rail, picked up the soft-bristled broom and began sweeping the chancel floor.

Finding myself in Paris exactly 50 years after Georges Perec, it felt like a timely opportunity to follow in his footsteps.

In Part II, drawing parallels with listening at the hospital, I want to move out into the soundscape, then explore expansive awareness.

In this post, I’d like to explore a vital orientation in contemplative field recording, that of care-full listening.

I’ve never been able to escape a sense that my experience of meaning and fulfilment is bound up with what could be called the spiritual life

The simple beauty of field recording and contemplative  practice have been an indispensable support in my own journey. Here's how...