Monday, June 7, 2010


What I wrote in my journal while sitting on a rock at the foot of Yosemite Falls -- There are no words to compass what is here. And why would I try? Words could never convey the full extent of this day or this place.

Later on that day this idea -- We are the ones being played--the ones being sounded; not instruments, birds, nature, or anything else. When water falls, it falls though us and sets us vibrating. We are plucked, thrummed, sounded, struck and rung by God through God's creation. The sound we make when we are played by God is our delight. Listen to the birds as they sing you; to the water as it vibrates you, to the siren as it sets the molecules of your body throbbing, to the instruments as they hum along your nerves. You are the recipient of this music; music made with you. The Universe, the creation is playing us; if only we can hear it.

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