The wildflowers seem unusually abundant this year so I’ve been focusing on them. They are singing my name, and on this excursion down dirt roads they were beckoning me in unison, like a well rehearsed choir.
There were some soloists but even they appeared more elegant within their milieu. When I was seven, swaying the swing under the giant oak, I imagined myself teaching the different vegetables in the garden to sing in harmony. On this day, in my seventieth decade, I just listened.
On this day I drifted between hearing the whole as it worked together and then focusing on the beauty of the individual.
I listened to the symphony of an inland lake on a summer’s morning, telling its secrets of times untold.
I listened to the secrets of being free to bloom and age as nature intended, without pretense.
And I listened to the cords of caution, knowing they need to be respected.
May we all hear this music and allow its message to grow within our spirits.