Yesterday it rained, the soil of the garden beds is still moist and dark in the morning sun. The skies are cloudless today, not a speck of white as far as I can see. But sitting in the sun on the back porch I look up through the branches of the neighbor's tree, into blue that doesn't have a beginning or an ending, to the bottom of the sun's late morning rays, and I watch the cottonwood fluff floating in the clear air on a breeze that doesn't reach my skin. Like the charm'd air in a Faery-land painting, these summer snowflakes drift and fall, carried, caught, picked up, blown on and on. The mysterious breeze that carries them has now begun to lift the tips of the leaves on the branches. The chimes ding faintly, almost at the edge of hearing, a melody for the swaying of the trees.
I've been sitting here in the warm sun, only breathing, watching, listening, feeling.
Weren't we made for this? To dance in the breeze with the leaves and chimes and the cottonwood fluff?
What is it in the sound of the wind in the trees (or the waves on the shore), that makes us all feel such yearning, such personal piercing injury? Maybe it's that there is nothing we can do to recreate that motion for ourselves. No music we can make that can replicate the language of unchanged, un-"improved upon" creation. They are a sound to which we can only respond by letting be, nothing doing but listening, and acknowledging that our only worthy work is in making room for what we cannot do by ourselves. And then we rest.