While staining my back deck, I listen.
I listen to the rushing river sound of the wind in the trees. I listen to the flutter of wings flapping overhead. I listen to the buzzing of the hornets when they get too close.
The knocking of the woodpecker is near. And then she is at the bird house only steps away, feeding her young. I pause and watch, thrilled to be able to see one so close.
This is one moment I don’t capture with my camera, a moment I would miss if I did.
There is music in this house.
My husband plays guitar. And I listen.
I listen with my ears. But I also listen with my mind and my heart and my whole self.
I cannot play, but I can appreciate.
Sure, I played a few video games growing up, mainly Pac-Man and Tetris. Not like my son does, though. He plays video games the way I swore I’d never let a kid play video games.
We limit his time, of course, but his obsession is beyond my comprehension.
It concerns me how much time he cares to spend playing, researching, and talking about video games. The one consolation is this: The talking he does is with us. I am incredibly grateful that, at ten, he is happy to share his interests with us.
And so, even though video games aren’t my thing, I listen.
I closed my eyes for a minute at the beach yesterday.
The wind from earlier in the day had died; my kids were in the trailer; it was just me and the Bay of Chaleur.
So I sat down in my fold-up chair, stretched out my legs into the sun, and closed my eyes. The only sounds were the gentle swishing of the water as it lapped the shore and the occasional laughing gull. I breathed in the sweet salt air and let the warmth of the sun feed my soul. Too soon, summer will be over (somebody, please slow it down!), and these things will be but a memory and a wish.
I believe I was made for summer.