Desert hymns adjust the film of inexactness that often plague a city girl’s reasoning.
Precious bellows of wind resonate through a canyon and her fine branches of Palo Verde and Ocotillo. Her song is accompanied by chirps, and whistles, and the whirring of hummingbirds.
In the silence of sorts, a yellow and blue backed lizard makes an invitation for hide and seek. Delight runs through my veins like a balm. Attentive enough to take the bait for play, and to revel in the witnessing of the bees as they pollinate Springtime blooms.
I wish to request of the people I come upon, that are somehow still speaking words, to be more quiet. My preference is for a concert without interruption. And then I remember that for some, and at times, the sound of our own voice can be the medicine. Or at least the distraction that offers a comfort of sorts when listening feels too foreign.
Amidst the desert ballad I recall the me I was grieving. She is found upon long trails and beside plants and within the experience of feeling one’s own musculature and tendons and lungs.
Organs of respiration may be utilized to make exchanges of wonder more powerful, rather than sorrow more palpable.
A larger shelter offers the spaciousness to call back the noticing of how a breeze moves through my ears, my jaw, my heart, my every cell. Boundless wilds reveal the intimate lyrics between the flesh and bones of my being with that of the majestic saguaro.
Like any good spiritual, I bow reverently, and flail my limbs with worship.