Day 177

I love the haunting, ringing, lonely sounds of life. The distant blast of a train whistle, the call of a loon across a northern lake, the rising howl of a wolf apart from his pack. There is a peculiar beauty in these sounds, a minor edge of sorrow cast by a full throat. These sounds make my heart leap--in recognition, in longing, in sheer appreciation of loveliness, maybe. I'm not entirely sure.

The sound of geese carolling by has a similar effect. My breath catches and I feel a sudden wild rush of joy.



In 8th grade, maybe 9th, I went with my class to work at a camp that was closed for the season. We did a bit of logging, dug rocks out of the ground, all sorts of manual labor. And I'm not gonna lie: I loved it. Really. There's something about discovering your strength out under the open sky that's a huge rush.

Across the path from the cabin I slept in was a playground set with swings and teeter-totters. One morning I woke up early--the sun was barely over the horizon--and snuck outside. I lay back on the seesaw and watched the sky slowly light up. There was a bit of frost on the trees and as the sun warmed the branches, I watched the fog of evaporation. And just as I was thanking God for the discovery of morning, I heard a rising cacophony. A few seconds later, the flock of geese swept directly over me, the rays of the sun catching on their throats, their wings. It's one of the most incredible and moving sights I've ever seen.



Sometimes I wish I could just take wing and follow them across the sky. And then they're gone. Maybe it's best that way. Maybe the beauty we appreciate most is necessarily fleeting. Maybe we only long for it because of its impermanence.