Have you ever noticed how birds’ songs ebb and flow?
Have you ever watched and waited for that miraculous moment when an angle of sunlight caresses thick gray clouds, their union the birth of a rainbow?
Have you ever paid attention to which limbs of a tree are actually moving in the breeze?
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A few mornings ago, I was struck –inexplicably, indelibly – by the sound of wind in the fir boughs. It’s a very common sound around here. I have been acquainted with Windsong since I was very little and spent time in the ponderosa forests of nearby mountains. I recall my tiny self being amazed by the huge and captivating sound: rushing rivers of something unseeable, rhythms I could not predict or call back once they had receded.
I was eager for more, and more, and more.
In the place where I grew up, hot windstorms would ravage the landscape for a few weeks each year. My mother despised these spells, but I hid and watched and listened: seeking out Windsong in her more persistent calling.
Throughout my life I have continued to listen for wind wherever I am. She has caused me to immediately stop whatever I am doing so that I can hear her with my full attention. She has asked me to pause all motion, all pursuit, and just attend to her. She has cracked open my heart on numerous occasions, washing my inner landscape with peace or invigoration. Always with wellbeing. I have written tomes about my passion for Windsong, usually in the autumn when she is a frequent visitor. Throughout my life, I imagine I have been called to abiding presence by Windsong perhaps ten thousand times.
The other morning, though, something different happened. I stood on my deck, called out there by a glimpse of the upper quarter of the tall evergreens swishing in the breeze. As I listened, eyes entranced in a vague gaze toward the treetops, the sound enveloped me.
It was not loud.
It was not strong.
The sound was nothing I had ever heard before even as it was utterly familiar and comfortable.
And it entered me in such a way that I and Windsong became one. It was not me listening to her. Or her singing for me. It was an exquisite moment of pure union.
I find it difficult to convey in words these phenomenal experiences of pure unity. It is feeling – sensory and emotional. It is connection – seamless and potent. It is boundarylessness of the highest sacred order.
* * *
In the earliest morning, a diversity of bird species – each with their unique phrasing and pitch – join together in an orchestration so otherworldly, so melodic, and yet so utterly unrepeatable.
The mist or deluge here, the opening in the sky there, are portents of a prismatic display.
The entire tree doesn’t move, just a few select branches that are wind-enticed to dance.
Why not open ourselves - through the repeated practice of noticing how things are unfolding just outside our door – to the potential for sweet moments of brilliant interbeing?
