Last night, in the early hours before midnight, traveling silently through the dark house, I heard a strange sound.
Wind danced through the trees, blowing yellow leaves onto the earth. Wind’s melody crescendoed everywhere, but what else? What other sound sifted through closed windows, teased bright stars gleaming between clouds?
I opened the bathroom window and listened.
A quarter mile away laps the Huron Bay. Some music-lover, some kokopelli, some wild soul, threw wide the door to his heart and music reverberated across the waters. In stereo trilled the beckoning notes, urging us to follow.
Native American flute music-so loud you could almost reach out and touch its liquid mournful joy–serenaded us all.
A spontaneous concert from someone’s beloved collection! The deer ceased chewing. The raccoons stopped marauding. The mice quit scurrying. The people crept outside into the night and listened. Oh, we listened.
I wrapped myself in a chunky white blanket, pulled up a chair on the deck, and settled in.
The flute trilled. How could it reverberate so loudly? Its melody teased the wind. It lilted into our hearts, human, animal and flora. It thrilled. Notes rose and sank, urging us beyond our daily concerns.
Perhaps someone grumped down on the bay, frowned at his wife, bemoaned the inconsiderate loud music keeping him awake.
The rest of us almost stopped breathing as we listened. The wind breathed for us, instead.
We followed the flute where it led us, and it led us into hallowed territory, into blessed land.
A pause. The wind sang its commercial before the next song birthed.
Then beneath the silver flute waterfall arrived the drums.
Heartbeat of the earth. Pa-thunk, Pa-thunk, Pa-thunk. Mother Earth rose from her slumber and danced, her hair wild, her lips red, the soil of her dress blown askew.
Wind gusted and blew hair in my eyes. Gods and goddesses shimmered, flying up from the dark roots of trees to join the Earth Mother in her abandon.
The woods shivered as it realized its love.
Song after song danced across the water, that dark bay just a quarter mile away.
I heard Barry puttering out by the garage.
Sleep beckoned. I returned to bed, yet still heard the blessing of the flute, practicing love scales in my heart, awakening something still slumbering.
“Did you hear the concert?” I asked Barry this morning.
“Wasn’t it something?” he replied. ”I can’t believe we heard it over the wind. Usually when the wind blows from that direction it would blow the sound away.”
Thank you for the Native American Flute blessing, dear Universe, dear beloved divine.
Listen, dear reader, for the silver flute guiding you this day.
I’m up and following it now, wherever it leads…