I wake to the sound of wind chimes. They sound like church bells but I don’t live near a church.  I open the door to the outside. They still sound like church bells. I don’t recall hearing them sound like that before.  My brother passed away two weeks ago on this day, Sunday. I received the call at five AM. It’s not yet 5 and I hear bells.  

I go back to bed and lie there, listening, feeling my eyes adjust inside my head.  My brother had better than 20/20 vision. Near-sighted, I wonder if I’m being called to a wider vision, a different tuning within my ability to see and hear, live and be.

I consider the buck who used to stand below a windchime in our lower yard and use his antlers to play a tune.  Perhaps he was simply scratching his head but it looked intentional, seemed a conscious awareness of working with, playing with metal bars to make notes pleasing to a deer’s ears.  I felt empowered when I watched him responding to and enhancing the environment we shared.

I wonder what bars my brother plays with now.  What is this passage for him as it reverberates in me?   

What is the strength of my being as I move through air?  How am I changed?

A shelf has been placed in my heart on which I contain the pain of his passing, but perhaps I can view it as a step, a threshold over which I peer to more clearly swing air through my own windchimes.  Perhaps I can more clearly tune my moment to moment passing before that passage that seems final but is only change.

The sky begins to light, the softest gray comes, and with it, a bird chirps and chirps from a branch of a tree outside my window.

Is he or she opening leaves in spring, fertilizing them with sound?

Opening responds in me. I unfurl, unfold, and play windchimes with the air of my song.  It’s fifteen days since he passed; it’s time. Lips lift and smile.

Moving grace,

day unfolds

Origami in reverse,

Life patterns let go –

Wind chimes,

touch, touched.

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