Snakes have vestibular ear parts, but unlike humans they have no outer ears, no ear canals—just inner ears.

For years this baffled scientists and they hypothesized snakes were deaf and the inner ears were just some useless remnant from the snakes’ evolutionary past.

New science tells us that snakes CAN hear sound in their inner ears—it’s transmitted through their skin and through vibrations in their skull.

There’s a story in Greek mythology about a soothsayer, Melampus. He raised two orphaned snakes after finding their mother crushed beneath a cart. As thanks, they licked his ears while he was asleep, making him able to understand the language of all animals.

The story doesn’t elaborate on what the sensation of hearing animals was like for Melampus, but I wonder how he heard? Were the voices translated into his own human tongue? Or did his hearing become like a snake: more somatic, instinctual, animal?

Maybe true listening begins with attention. Melampus recognized the young snakes were in distress and showed them attention; in turn, they granted him the ability to truly hear.

Pre-pandemic, I had anxiety about gathering in large groups. I always felt scattered, half-listening to one conversation, my other ear tuned to what was going on around me. It was impossible to be present with my mind spread in so many directions and to listen without knowing how to direct my attention. I’ve always preferred the safe spaces of a few intimate friendships where we skip over all the small-talk and engage with the deepest parts of ourselves. Even in online spaces I find myself drawn past the noise to the voices which speak to the tender insides of things.

I don’t feel a need to have a voice in every conversation, but I can listen with bodily awareness. Where do these words speak to the deepest parts of me? Can I feel them vibrating on my skin? Through my skull? In the softness or constriction of my belly? Does my heart rend because of injustice? Human suffering? How do I respond? Where am I directing my attention?