Tuesday, July 20, 2010

A Gentle Morning at The Cove
















The air was near-still, just the vaguest hint of a breeze wafted the pungent aroma of the sea and marsh, rich with salt and decaying vegetation to my nose. The marsh grasses are so vibrantly green the salt water obviously does not seem to harm them but rather enhance their beauty. Obviously they are not really grasses, but some sort of grass-like plant growing at the edges of the coves and bays on Cape Cod. They pop visually, even when the daylight is muted, as it was that night at sunset in Rock Harbor. The low-hanging, heavy clouds which had blown in from the west hid the sun so we could never really tell when the sun set.

The next morning while I sat on the porch at The Cove Motel overlooking the cove at Orleans the sky was again overcast. The clouds hung just barely above the level of fog and again shrouded the arrival of the sun. Even with the clouds muting the sun-light the colors surrounding me were vibrant. The world was awash in various shades of green with accents of lavender, cherry, yellow, rust, white and brown. The air pulsated with bird life - song birds, swans, gulls, terns, ducks, geese, and crows - a veritable symphony of sound washed over me and awoke my eardrums.

Such a muted, gradual awakening of the world from slumber under a blanket of mist or low-lying clouds seems the most comforting and perfect manner for morning to unfold. The sunlight gradually intrudes upon the world, the temperature so very gradually begins to climb, and life gently stirs and stretches, yawning into activity. This is so much more civilized than when the world is startled awake by the brilliance and glare of a full, non-shielded sun.

These types of mornings occur often near water, the night mists and fogs arising to allow this slow embrace of the day to evoke life gentle, with loving nurture. It is a most hospitable way to care for life - inviting the world to awaken by providing a muted, gentle, open and welcoming space for that to take place. I much prefer it, and it seems from the joy and celebration of the morning the wildlife agreed, to the approach that demands a response and a conforming to the will and expectations of the sun in the harsh judgement of a naked sunrise. When the land and water is overshadowed by clouds they create an arena of peace where the plants and animals and birds can slowly stretch their limbs and begin to explore their capabilities and the world around them without the harsh judging glare and withering gaze that sternly demands results.

Would that we could provide such welcoming arenas for one another as human beings.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Memories Triggered by Familiar Sounds












The sound of the cicada's was omnipresent. The distant moan and rumble of the train washed over me like a warm shower. But it was the church bell's - just a brief Westminster chime sounding the quarter hour - which evoked the memories triggered by familiar sounds. I had not heard the sound of church bells in ages. A carillon used to sound from the steeple of Columbia Presbyterian Church, located right next to the Columbia seminary campus, several times a day, but most noticeably for me at the six o'clock hour every evening. Then First Congregational United Church of Christ in Elkhart, Indiana, followed by Melbourne UCC in Florida both had carillons serenading the local communities, primarily downtown business districts, with lovely sacred music several times each day. When I moved to Christ Congregational UCC in the south suburbs of Miami the carillon was turned off because the neighbors had complained to the County government about the intrusion into their lives with "church music." Shortly after I arrived we briefly turned the carillon back on, just to play the Westminster chimes on the hour, but the neighbors again began sending us nasty notes. Before we could even decide whether to turn it off or not, the carillon stopped playing and we never pursued repairs. Truth is none of the members of Christ Church really lived close enough to ever hear the bells and, other than the Preschool staff, the rest of the staff was never really present to hear them very often either. Still, I do miss the gentle sound of old church hymns played by carillon bells. Hearing the bells always brought me comfort and peace, often triggering positive, happy memories.

While reflecting on the church bells my ears picked up the distant moaning of a train horn following by the rhythmic parting of the sound waves by the passing of the train cars on nearby tracks. Again, the doors of nostalgia opened on past lives. The sound of trains did not become a regular part of my life until I moved to Columbia Seminary in Decatur, Georgia. The tracks were about a half mile away, close enough to hear the train as a distant romantic serenade, rather than an intrusive oppressive presence. Especially pleasant were the late night trains passing and offering a gentle form of lullaby while trying to drift off to sleep following late night studies. The trains followed me to Cullman, Alabama that first seminary summer, and then to Joshua, Texas my second summer, and even to Elkhart, Indiana in my first church after graduation. For eight years trains offered an audible connection with a romantic view of Americana, the earlier history of westward expansion, and a feeling of the transportation lifeblood of the country pulsating with life. When I moved to Melbourne, Florida, even though the church was one block off the Florida East Coast Railway, the trains did not seem to run as often and I can barely recall their presence. Since moving to Miami they have clearly faded the arena of nostalgia.

Strolling comfortably with these audible memories suddenly the cicadas jumped into my awareness. They had been providing an omnipresent backdrop of white noise so prevalent in northern climes in the temperate zone where forests with significant growth of deciduous trees are the rule. Sitting on the porch where we are staying, the sound of the cicada's ebbed and flowed, swelling to the crescendo that surrounded and enveloped as though it was a physical presence, only to fall to pianissimo level that never fades away, remaining at the lowest level of audible awareness.

I am not as aware of the sounds of my life in Florida as I was during this early morning meditation. What I did recall at that moment, becoming aware of their absence, is the sound of birds that are very present in Miami. There were no songbirds this morning. I don't hear songbirds in Miami either. Our birds are not the melodic type. We have mockingbirds and doves, jays and crows, parrots and peacocks, all joined by the squirrels. They offer more staccato, or screeching, or haunting calls rather than melody, but it is very present.

I will need to listen more closely when I return home to identify the prominent sounds surrounding me, providing the sound track for my life.

(The pictures offer a taste of the setting for this auditory reflection.)