Merely a Listener

Sitting quietly, the wind is rushing through the woods. It softens almost to a whisper before picking up momentum. Now, the crescendo intensifies into a full roar. A moment later, it is calm, the clouds part, and the sun shines through. My eyes are closed in meditation, but I can sense the brightness as the light moves in patterns across my brow.

A bird flies nearby; its cry is a raucous complaint that pierces the silence like a knife to the belly. As I exhale, I gently remind myself to be completely still. Now, I am merely a listener as the sky sounds meld and become one with the resonance of my breathing. In an instant, everything arises from within as opposed to around or outside of me. All that is left is a singular fragment of an idea that an external world even exists. As the breath continues to flow, all semblance of "world" fades away until no thing remains.

There is a deep echo in the very core of my being. If I had to give it a name, I would simply call it music. But it is so much more than that. The sounds linger and become part of my soul like the pulsing of blood through the vessels of my heart. There is no semblance of separation between me and all that is. Rather, the wind is my breath as my spirit soars among the stalwart trees, barren of leaves, dormant beneath winter white.


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