I want you to know that I'm
still listening, my friend. To the
rivers, the breeze. Trying to stay
attuned and of service. Just as you
taught your students. Now the world is
harder, darker, and demands so much more from all of us. But there is still unimaginable wonder hidden
everywhere. The book, the hand, the
song. What it means to travel. To honour and to dream. Wolves.
Angels. The way we circle back. This kind of dreaming can happen anywhere. This shining reciprocity. In the forests of dusk and dawn. At the city's edge where lost things dwell. Or
upon the bridge, the refrain or verse. These
are questions of faith in the end, aren't they? Ritual writ large, and blind. The oldest songs are always songs of place, of
love and the unseen. We need to believe that something cares, that something
underpins and reveals. We craft hymns of
creation and experience, that we might know ourselves and each other. That we might order the maelstrom with such holy
writ, and soothe our fear of wraith and shadow.
As it was on that fragile edge.
I remember how the emissaries all continued
to build stunning halls and schools in Ethri-sol, even as mirrors bled and
stars began to fall. We weren't ready to
simply abandon everything we knew in fear of those terrifying shades. Instead we held steadfast to our principles
and our hopes. Churches of higher
thought. Libraries, archives. Places of learning and rest. We cherished them even as they slowly
darkened.
Even as the sky itself began to fracture.
But I still recall meeting a girl in one of
those schools. A beautiful musician. She could write songs with only a glance, just
as Yash’a did. A gesture. A palm against the heart or a hand placed
gently across the eyes, to invoke such melody. Summoning even the subtlest harmonies. We became
great friends eventually, despite our world beginning to darken all around us.
Slowly at first, then with increasing rapidity. A thousand years was nothing to the teachers
and students of Eth'iri. This girl was a
true visionary. She taught me many
things about music, but never how to play. We would joke about it now and then. I still haven't learned an instrument beyond word
or sky. But I often sat listening as she
taught the others, enjoying the sweet poignancy of her wisdom. She spoke of how she could hear music in the
rivers and the breeze. In birdsong and
forest murmur. We carry that music with
us, she said. And we shape it. A continual, constant exchange.
Like breath.
More than simple conceit or metaphor. A literal music of the spheres that could be heard by an attuned soul or ear. In our depths, our graces. The joy of our fingers on strings and keys, the dexterity of the hand that moves a pen. The promise of a kiss, or the sculpting of a star. Wherever we go, there the music is. It's something I've never really forgotten. Flowers planted on the banks of the river. Prayers sung on the sands of the shore. The way spirits breathe and mortals imagine. My friend described this hidden music as a powerful secret, in that enigmatic way of many teachers and poets. A traveller's secret, she said. She wasn't wrong. I still remember. "With love nothing is impossible. Can you hear?"
Like breath.
More than simple conceit or metaphor. A literal music of the spheres that could be heard by an attuned soul or ear. In our depths, our graces. The joy of our fingers on strings and keys, the dexterity of the hand that moves a pen. The promise of a kiss, or the sculpting of a star. Wherever we go, there the music is. It's something I've never really forgotten. Flowers planted on the banks of the river. Prayers sung on the sands of the shore. The way spirits breathe and mortals imagine. My friend described this hidden music as a powerful secret, in that enigmatic way of many teachers and poets. A traveller's secret, she said. She wasn't wrong. I still remember. "With love nothing is impossible. Can you hear?"
No comments:
Post a Comment