Are you ever too young to worry whether the days of your life are numbered? I am a counter of minutes, and so I cannot humanly bear a waste of time, yet I love to listen. Just to listen, just that and only that as long as my mind can separate itself from the world and it’s details. I lie here listening now. The window is thrown open, and my curtains blow faintly, soundlessly. It seems a listless motion. The day is overcast, but as five o’clock looms closer, I can hear the sounds of summer spilling over the neighborhood.
It would seem that wind is meaningless.
What remains unseen is capable of disaster. In fact, I think the worst harm is done by the invisible. Anger, pride, lust, confusion, hopelessness – all of them like gale force winds. The wind now is so gentle that the silky little blooms of my geraniums stand shivering. But I can hear it in our old cottonwood tree. The leaves take turns hushing the world, and carrying on lively conversations in whispers. When stiff branches blow, the tree takes on another shape altogether, a living, breathing amoeba against the sky. I feel like I’m wasting time, though it was me yesterday who watched the grass, eye level with the ground for so long, concentrating. The little, worthless blades were moving in unison and I just knew that God took each one seriously. I just knew He was right there directing my lawn with both hands. A symphony. Saying, “Bend Northward. Tremble. Bend back now. Be still.”