Home » Games News » Music muse assignment - in the garden
The garden is never quiet. Not in the sense that there is no sound. Instead, the leaves of the poplar tree in the corner constantly sing the song of the wind, even when her breath is lightest. They dance and turn with her some days, and waltz slowly on others. Beside me the koi pond bubbles in the shadows. The water falls over itself clamoring for the depths again and again. I imagined in other days that it must sound like thunder to the fish sleeping down below. Even the vibrant blooms of flowers, roses, daisies, campanula, wildflowers chatter to each other and the bees that come to greet them.
I sometimes wish that I spoke the language of sparrows as they sit on the tendrils and wax green leaves of the grapevine that lines the fence. Calling to each other in sweet notes of music that only they can understand, I find that I am only able to sit with them and listen without searching for meaning. This, I suspect is the better way to be. Not that the sparrows are concerned for me. They only notice when I shift on the lounger to get a better view. One, a short time ago, watched me with a tilted head. 'Who is this stranger in my world' I imagined he said. His brown and black feathers glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. Indeed, who is this stranger? I have no answer to offer. Not today. Not on any day.
Years ago, I set a mirror on the fence in the garden. It is round, and surrounded with brass leaves. I don't remember where I found the mirror; in a yard sale probably. I just knew that the mirror was meant to sit among the vines, reflecting whatever touched the silvered glass. One afternoon, a friend visiting asked why.
'Why a mirror among the leaves?' She asked me. She stood in front of the mirror, admiring her own reflection. She touched her hair before turning to me for the answer.
'It offers another view to the flowers' I said. She scrunched her face. The flowers saw her. They smiled at me knowingly. I have kept the mirror in its place for years now. Today, the mirror is quiet and watching, a silent companion in my listening. Why do I feel it is easier to listen like this? The question rises up like the water in the pond, spilling itself onto my lap. This is easier than listening to the inane chatter of people who come and go through the doors of my home. It is not fair, I suppose, to say that their conversation is meaningless. Everything has meaning. It is the effort that kills me. The words, winding themselves in circles around my shoulders then fall like gravel on the path. I should listen, I know. I should watch their mouths as they form the sounds of letters and their meaning butts up behind to be spit out like quills.
Some days though the wind is louder, louder with a song that holds me to my soul like pollen on the freshly opened bloom. I cannot deny that song. What is there to do except offer a conciliatory smile to the speaker, and return to listening to the sky and the earth? It is a song older than my soul. Who am I to deny it? When I do return, to wander among the roots and clouds, I hope that my note will rise with the wings of the sparrows and fall with the rain. It is all that I hope for.
*note: I wrote this yesterday afternoon by hand, and only had time to type it out this morning...