I’ve been thinking about my grandfather lately. He was a great guy—straightforward, clever, honest, kind, and an incredible gardener. I’ve been remembering all of that about him. But mostly, I’ve been thinking about his hearing aids, and his relationship to the noise of the world.

Now it’s true that most folks, as they age, will experience some hearing loss. But Grampa’s auditory issues were more profound than that. They were genetic, passed down from his mother to him and through him to his daughter and then to me, his grand-daughter.

In our culture, hearing loss is considered just that—a loss, and I agree with that on some levels. In a crowded restaurant, I tend to miss a lot. And my husband will testify how annoying it is to have to repeat himself because there are some tones I just can’t hear correctly.

Even if he’s sitting right next to me.

However, there are gains as well.

When I was a kid, Grampa didn’t wear his hearing aids all the time, and he got through his daily life pretty well. I honestly don’t remember family members having to repeat themselves very often or even raising their voices to be heard.

I think he saved his hearing aids for special occasions such as Christmas or Thanksgiving. And what has seared those auditory devices into my memory was watching him, when discussions got too loud or his grandchildren were whirling up a storm or someone was playing the piano, reaching up to pluck them out of his ears.

And it always brought a smile to his face when he did that.

As a kid, I found that funny. But now as an adult with hearing loss—and believe me, no hearing aid brings it back to what you had—I too pluck my hearing aids out of my ears with a smile on my face when the world gets to be too much.

When I do that, I can’t hear the hot and useless words of politicians and the assorted bloviators who endlessly repeat one another as they pretend to have something important to say. I can’t hear angry voices in a meeting. Traffic is more like a whisper in the background. Radios, the PA announcements in stores (GAWD they are annoying), etc. etc. all get muted.

And I find it wonderful.

The world becomes a quieter place, more human-sized, more manageable.

As time goes on, I’ve become more convinced that one of the great contributors to the sickness of American society (and you have to admit there’s a lot of unhealthy stuff going around) is the sheer decibel level that we have forced ourselves to live in.

It’s why I consider my auditory state not as one of hearing loss but of quiet gain.

I wish I could share my naturally occurring mute button with you. At the very least, I encourage you take charge of as much of the noise in your life as you can, turning off the TV, the radio, the podcasts blaring in your ears. Quiet is a condition to be cherished, my friends.

It will give you the chance to get to know the inside of your own head.

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I was only a year old when this picture of Grampa and I was taken.