Wind Conductor

Wind Conductor March 5, 2019

What is your favorite musical instrument?  The organ?  Guitar?  Piano?  Banjo?  Violin?  Mine is the baton – a special baton called, “The Wind”,  because I have recently recognized that the wind is soundless.  It makes as little noise as does the conductor’s baton.  Yet, it draws forth music from every living thing – trees, grasses…; and even from non-living things – iron gates, pipe-scaffolding, concrete pillars… It is the silent, silver-tongued seductress that elicits sounds and songs from all of matter – from God’s Creation and from human creations.

You could say that the conductor is the only member of the orchestra who does not make music; or you could say that the conductor is the one producing all of the music.  The baton is no mere timekeeper, alerting the musicians as to when and how to play; rather, it is the awakener of the eyes, which are the soul’s sensors, inviting both the musician and the instrument to express their very being.

And that is what the wind is.  It is no accident that in many languages a single word does triple duty, meaning wind, life and spirit.  In Hebrew that word is Ruach; in Greek it is Pneuma; in Sanskrit it is Prana; and in Kiswahili it is Pepo.  It even sneaks into English as “Inspiration” which means to take in spirit, to be alive and to breathe in.

The wind is Spirit, it is breath and it is life.  And life is music; the music that souls make as they celebrate incarnation.  Misaligned incarnations result in cacophony, while aligned souls harmonize with the music of the Metaverse.  You can tell the state of a soul’s incarnation by the music of its spacesuit.

And the secret of harmony is to listen to the other sections.  All of the other sections, not just the human ones. What kind of music emerges when the percussion section is not listening to the string section; or the woodwind section to the brass section?

I regularly attend a local symphony orchestra called, Pena Creek.  I can hear it from the cliff on which my home is perched five hundred feet above the river; but, mostly, I like to get a “theatre box” just overlooking the stage.  So, here I am sitting on a little bluff some twenty feet above the creek.  A gentle zephyr is ruffling the surface of a sleeping pool making it gurgle happily like a semi-awake, absentmindedly-suckling infant at the breast.  Then the zephyr softly caresses the tall grasses which grow impossibly from a cleft in a soil-less rock in midstream, causing them to whistle like a chorus of concert flutes.  On the opposite shore, a strong, deliberate wind is playing among the redwoods.  They sway sensuously from their knees up, groaning with the pleasure of the touch.  I’ve seen these redwoods perform break-dancing in the wild orgies of the winter weather, and do slow, intimate waltzes in the summer breezes.

And even my own unkempt tresses are being swept across my face, tickling my cheeks and causing individual strands to vibrate like the strings on my grandfather’s fiddle.  I hear them whisper my secret, sacred name, which is known only to my soul.  I am reminded of Jesus’ saying, “Every hair on your head is counted.”

When I turn my face into the wind and play with the shapes and sizes of my oral orifice, it produces all known human vowel sounds.  I am a spirit practicing the languages of Gaia.

The wind knows how to pleasure all of the senses.  Though I live 17 miles from the ocean, I can sometimes smell and taste the salt air.  And, after a satisfying noon meal, as I sit on the deck, the breeze will sing a lullaby, as it gently presses my eyelids shut for a post-prandial nap, so that I can dream of the other miracles it is creating.

In the beginning was the Wind

and the Wind was the Word of God


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