tendrils of green grass blowing in the wind. each blade a living, breathing entity of its own, “as if the wind weren’t even a part of the equation.”
“What are you taken with?”
The choir of the birds; perfectly punctuated soprano-golden chirps and coos ever fleeting over the easy sighs of the late spring mid-day.
“The distant sound of children playing.”
A choir of its own. The choir of youth.
guided by the conductor of our eternity; the Sun.
When the sun is on my face I am grateful.
When it is on my back I smile, and I am grateful.
When it disappears behind the clouds I am grateful to have experienced it’s warm rays on my face and on my back.
And as the sun fades off and away behind the slow dance of the clouds that move across that panoramic sky and go from east to west they masterfully set the tempo for the day. A cry erupts from a crowd of athletes and families basking in the glory of the day. The birds chirp a simple and repetitive song and the cries of the children fade in and along with this song. Laughs and cries from the sporting crowd accented each section. And as the wind came in - right on cue - it swept along with its easy and indifferent sighs. An airplane flew over. I was caught in the middle of one deep zone of a trance and Mack came bounding down towards me, flung off from his slack line, and nearly landed in my notebook. We laughed out of pure joy, to the rhythm of this golden age song. The song continued to grow and move and ebb and flow and ever so slightly morph, only to return to the motif of that eternal golden riff that secretly lay beneath everything. Feeling the full weight and strength of this eternal golden wave that had engulfed me, I almost felt guilty for a moment. That some may never feel this way, or stop to hear the golden music of life all around them. But I could not explain or account for - and it certainly was not my place - to even begin to try to understand how others found God in their daily life. Or what God it was that they worshipped at all. And the God I know is not a white man, or even a man at all. God is the beetle on this blade of grass beside me. God is the wind. God is the plastic bag on the side of the road and the flake on paint on this rotting old chipped away barn. The little boy who is perpetually tripping on youth and the elastic simplicity and pure joy of life, literally tripping and jumping through the dandelion laden golden fields of this park on this glorious day - that is God. God is the writhing worm in this mud and the foreboding expansive storm clouds raging on above. God is the grouping of trees up atop this hill that landscapes in such a beautiful inviting way. There is God in the birds, their song, and there is God in these trees. There is God in the dead and rotting leaves. The God in the planes and these roaring man-made machines. The God in our simple little man schemes. The God that speaks in the wind and the whispers of the leaves. The God in the beetle on this leaf.
And so the song goes on. The choir never stops. And though the song may ever so slightly change, it ever only pauses. And when the sun goes down, it’s almost certainly bound to rise. The clouds may come round but the sunshines on the whole time.
A train horn sounded in the distance.
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