The Sound

A pattern within the battlefield


Among the waves of noise and light in the city, standing out from the din to my heart and ears like living lightning to the eyes of one blind, is a single sound. One strand in a tangled seethe of sirens and engines. Almost undetectable. Like the memories of my own conception.

In this sound my heart, my soul… my origin and my intelligence are lifted suddenly to into memory and recognition — of their true origin, nature, and that from which they emerge — and to which they absolutely and eternally belong.

And this sound destroys all fictions.

It is the actual sound of the living face of timeSpace and Eternity. Before there were books, this sound was The Word. As if the sky and the Earth, and the history of life and intelligence upon it, suddenly emerged into local proximity and expression. I and its source carry within our living bodies and bones, our souls… all the cycles of the moon since the first organism existed here. It is the sound of light as and in being, with and for living beings.

It is Origin.

It is not a metaphor. A concept. A likeness. Beyond them all.

In the darkness. Somewhere the light does not penetrate, barely detectable amongst the din there is a mystery more terrible and divine than all of science and religion. More astonishing than aliens, gods, or supernatural powers. Right next to me. I can hear it and it fills me with terror and promise almost unbearable.

Somewhere, in the darkness, just barely audible even through the sirens… I hear it, at last. At last I hear it.

I hear an animal moving within a living tree.

I hear the spirit of origin beyond all language. I hear and become its truth, its promise, its elemental mystery.

I hear an animal’s movements in a living tree.

And I become the living lightning that strikes me.

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