A vivid memory growing up in San Diego: trying to surf.
I was a competitive swimmer (so how hard could it be?). I paddled my way to the surfer’s spot where many sat in the lulled hush of the in-between volley of waves. There was a rhythm. To sit, watch, wait. Then catch the perfect wave. Basically, there was a lot of sitting involved.
What really killed it for me was an attempt on a long board (the easier model), and while I was mildly successful, I started to drift with the lateral current too far from my towel. Walking out of the cold foaming sea into the hot sand to get back to my zone, a group of boys approached. Obviously, they weren’t headed towards me, but still I couldn’t help, but… Yes, I tripped, falling over the cord attached to my ankle, taking a dive into the sand, hearing them ask if I was okay, but too humiliated to do anything other than trod on in the sand.
Today I found a much gentler form of surfing; with sound.
The sun is setting in the German Rhineland Palatinate after a day of storms. The apple trees line the dim path home. I don’t want to return yet, looking for one more small miracle to occur before entering the sterile house again.
A wave; a giant motion of leaves heaving up, and then down. Then silence. Still. The trees resting their lungs until the next great heave of wind fills their sails.
It feels like I’m surfing the tree; allowing the mind to settle in the calm, then letting go to the wildness of the wind’s howl.
So I sit under an apple tree. Hearing the waterfall of wind streaming through the branches, twigs, and leaves. Then quiet, and still. Then slowly breathing deeper like lungs to capture the wind. A roaring massage of matriculating sound on my mind.
I found ecstacy when the wind soared, and allowed the mind to settle in the volleys in between; a gentle meditation with a connection to beautiful sound. It’s anything but barren. It’s the process of becoming a branch, a leaf, a twig: embracing both the silence and the percussionist wind.
Waunder 