Asilomar State Beach, Pacific Grove, California
I keep hearing a soft breeze. The night seems still, but there’s a slight sound in the air, not quite a whistle, but a blowing, like the touch of air through the branches of a tall pine. If it weren’t for the resistance of the fine needles, there would be no sound at all. A feeling seems to dance with this resonance, changing in intensity as it ebbs and flows.
At times, I can’t be sure if I’m hearing it. At other times, the melody of a song will distract me; a melody I can’t place, violins, violas, and celli, moving together in harmony, sweet and seductive and filled with emotion. Tears roll down my cheeks, but I can’t tell if they are happy or sad. The experience seems to coalesce into a magnificence that leaves no room for anything else.
Often, this breath of wind resurfaces with the delicate texture of free-flowing silk. At the right moment, I’ll lean into the sound to increase the sensation, to deepen my connection with this invisible movement. But the effort becomes a distraction. There’s no other choice but to keep moving forward and do the work my heart requires.
The birds and the deer know this breeze, and at times, I can sense we share the sensation. You might recognize the feeling, the one that lives without a location in the body, the feeling that drifts and undulates with this gentle whisper through tall pines.
The bright morning light softens the sound, and it seems to disappear as the activities of the day unfold, the events of life, the ruckus activity of motion, work and play, meals and discussion. But the veiled sound always returns, with a gentle touch of the face, the slight motion of hair, and the sigh of its hushing presence.