Tonight the stars are worried.
They know what’s coming tomorrow.
They know the sound that will be born.
They can tell the hour of the spark.
But they have no way to warn us.
Only their light and radiation.
We are not aware of this yet unborn sound.
But like all sound it will live, expand, mature, and die
before we even realize what happened.
It will pollinate our ears, sending signals to all parts of the brain,
residing (or residues) resting in our muscles and fibers – getting to work.
Sound is the signal that germination has begun in the mind.
That soft soil, fertile with ideas, emotions, and memory.
A reptilian coral reef of ancient response.
The sound scatters within, feeding a primordial silent well.
Replay. Replay. Replay the sound. Feel the shake. This new fruit needs it.
So this is the garden.
Pollinated by sound, fresh and old.
I always walk here.
I always live here.
It gets loud sometimes.
Like recordings of monsoon forests overnight.
Mysterious birds and bugs cricket and cry.
And the rising static buzz of all the smaller ones that becomes a crescendo on its own.
Yes, that’s how loud it gets.
When I meditate I choose to have no ideas.
I say, “I don’t need to think about anything right now”.
It helps if I’m under running water.
I’m surprised I can do that. Not for long.
But it’s surprising to think to ask the monsoon forest to settle down.
A lot of things grow deep in the coral rock, and can’t survive in the sun.
I’m no marine-ist. But learning to respect the dark it needs
helps me live with it.
I haven’t been out today. I wonder what the stars look like.
I wonder what they are trying to say.
I can see them, always waving and pointing.
To what though? Is there something behind me?
Or is it ahead?