Waiting

            Gazing toward the treetops, I admire the piney woods.  All is still and silent in the sunshine.  And then I hear the distant roar of a high altitude wind.  The sound reaches me before the motion reaches the trees.  I watch.  A gentle swaying in the treetops starts; the branches begin their graceful sweep to the rising wind.  Finally the breeze brushes against me, too.  I marvel at its subtlety.

            Most mornings I practice my flutes.  Such joy fills me as the sound fills the room, reverberating against the pine walls and bare floors.  Scales, Suzuki Book One tunes, flute choir music, solos, sacred music—all are worship with breath and sound and soul. 

            A single word, “waiting,” presses into my consciousness.  Is there something to say?  The only way to find out is to sit at the keyboard and compose.  Looking out into the woods, I see a fat robin perched on a pine bough.  He looks about and hops further in toward the trunk.  The branches lift and dip almost imperceptibly with today’s whisper of wind.

            My loud washing machine works on a load of clothes.  The propane-fueled stove fans its flames to heat the house.  The ceiling fan thrums in the background.  My smart phone beeps again.  I just saw a hummingbird flit by the back window.  It is 10:39 a.m. and I am waiting, listening, grateful for the peaceful refreshment of the morning.