4 May, 2009
Gravel scuffles and scurries and scuddles under my feet.
Why is it when you want the world to be quiet that it reverberates and magnifies its noise? Crunch of loose rocks, tubular draughts of air from the pursed lips of wind’s face, and muted bird songs paint the background of the evening.
My flustered heart doesn’t know how to pray; doesn’t know what I want; doesn’t know what to expect. Half the walk expires in bursts of insipid supplication.
Then I turn.
Into the face of the gusting giant, all other noise sinks in the drowning power of wind’s voice. Demanding, constant, impossible to ignore—all the way home he talks. And I fall silent.
Home again: caragangas divide the power of the wind and split the blaze of evening sun. I and the world can be quiet together, and hear the songs of worship.
Red-winged blackbirds practice their marshy songs, while visiting neighbours tune their instruments; and together they hash and jam their evening away. And it is worship.
Tall young man confidently strides in musing pleasure, searching for treasures, capturing worth, exploring beauty through his camera lens. He sings as he walks; a deep, smooth, young song to his God. And it is worship.
Gravel’s noise exchanged for grass’s rustle; exercise exchanged for meditative strolling; bustle exchanged for calm caresses of the golden night. Goal and discipline of the road exchanged for budding tenderness of the yard. And it is worship.
Coming from the west, another traveller approaches the home quarter. Beautiful, slim mother nears from her walk of prayer and unwinding. And it is worship.
Topaz lighting fades gloriously into sapphire; afternoon’s heat gives way to evening’s chill. Beauty’s painful peak glides into sunset’s soothing embrace. And it is worship.
My heart is quiet.
And it is worship.
