I wake when morning sounds filter through my open window and the pink of daylight begins to stream around the edges of the shades.
Birds call me to the window. Not the heavy morning coos of the doves outside my home in Gilbert, or the raucous pigeon calls from my daughter’s entryway rafters— these are gentle, staccato chirps and an occasional warble.
I listen to the rustle of trees and the splatter of a brook as it falls over rocks, and laps and burbles its way intently along the boulder- lined stream. Four huge Cottonwood trees tower above my second floor balcony. Their light gray trunks spread roots that stretch in all directions at the surface of the ground. They will wind their way under the walk-ways at some point and pop the cement upward with ease. Even the green grass seems to speak, especially in the rain we’ve had today.
These are sounds I do not hear on my brick patio beside my yard of granite and stone. My Sissoo trees are six years old and have grown well over the roofline, but they stand silent and dull most every day. The winds through the Cottonwoods lull me to sleep at night and soothe my inner stress and ever ruminating mind throughout the day.
This place will grow silent in the cold snowy winter I suppose, once the leaves drop and the birds nestle in somewhere and the brook freezes. But for now, it is designed for my enjoyment—to take the place of idol thoughts and problems.
There is always a small kernel of longing wedged in my soul, but when I experience what I’ve been missing, that memory muscle flexes, and it feels like home, childhood, days of summer, a missing piece of my soul. And God said, “It is good.”