About a week into the shelter-in-place order here in Washington, I was out for a hike. One of my typical routes includes a long block that meets a busy road on one end and a forest entrance on the other. I enter the road from the forest side (from a trail I’ve taken that connects my road to the long-block road) and I make one pass down the block and then one more back up it again so I can continue the bulk of my walk on the forest trails. What I especially like about this detour into a neighborhood is that the trees open up – lining only the edges of large farm properties – to offer wide views of the sky. The morning light on this rural strip of road is exquisite in any season. Houses and barns, sheds and shelters, are set far back on these parcels; some are not visible from the road. My neighbors’ gardens lining the pavement are lovely and vast. One large property has a herd of goats, several llamas, and a few sheep; the goats come running to the fence as I pass by, eager to nibble at my fingers in search of a treat. Another neighbor has various types of verbose fowl, expansive vegetable gardens, and the sweetest yellow labs.
And, a place I never paid much attention to until a week into the physical distancing restrictions, has now become a highlight. On the edge of one of the large properties, and every close to the road, is a small dark green cottage with a one-room upstairs tucked under the eaves. There have never been vehicles parked in front of the house in the past, though the haven is definitely inhabited, evidenced in part by a healthy flower pot on the porch. But in recent weeks, one or two cars are in front of the house every time I pass by; curtains are variously open or closed; windows are shut in a rainstorm, cracked on the cool days, flung wider open as it warms up. I am not a lookie-loo peering into people’s windows, but it’s hard to miss the way in which this house abutting the road now breathes with the life of humans staying at home during the covid-19 crisis. I imagine these neighbors are furloughed; I pray every time I pass by that they will have jobs when the stay-at-home order is lifted in our state.
But what has drawn me to pause at this house over and over again in the past six and half weeks is the sweet music that now seems to flow from the heart of some soul inside. On one early morning it was piano music. Melodic, relaxed notes running up and down the keyboard. Not too many, and never any chords. Just amazing finger work playing a gentle, unrecognizable tune that had no chorus, no repeats, but which stretched on as crystal-clear, healing sound syllables. No rush, no crescendo; it was as smooth and calm as an easily-flowing stream. I stopped in front of the house that seventh day of isolation, with my face averted so I wasn’t looking into the windows. I closed my eyes and just let that tender piece flow over me, emptying my mind of worry and filling my heart with comfort. I’m not sure how long I stood there, face lifted up toward the trees, as my entire being was bathed with music. I continued my hike that day not with a buoyant feeling, but with an unconditional joy – and deep peace.
The next time I went past the green cottage, I raised my palms together to my heart and offered a gesture of gratitude in the direction of that house.
On another pass-by, I heard music streaming from an iPod; it was a timeless, genre-less music filled with fat gentleness.
And finally, just last week when I was coming back up the long block to reenter the forest, I heard a new song – truly, a song with words – coming from a woman inside the green haven. Again I paused with my back to the windows, but my ears fully tuned in. I might loosely classify what I heard her singing as “folk music.” I stood very still, afraid that any slight rustling of my jacket would block out a note of this heartful song. Like the piano piece from weeks earlier, this song had no repetition or chorus. But I could – whenever the breeze outside quieted – hear a few words. And every single word that reached me was a reference to nature. I imagined hearing:
“Breath.”
“Mossy cradle.”
“Heartbeat.”
“Sparrow.”
“Willow tree.”
“Skies.”
I felt like an angel had delivered me again to a safe liminal space, somewhere between the desecration of the everyday and the holiness of the moment. For the next few minutes as I strode back up the road, all the way until I reached the forest trail with its myriad delights and distractions, I composed a letter of gratitude to that woman.
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2020 Jennifer J. Wilhoit/TEALarbor stories. All Rights Reserved."
