Something In The Air

February 24, 2017 jeanne w.

There's something in the air here in Maui, in Missouri. Something soft like clouds. Something deep like sky. Echoing from four corners, in the wind. Something lifted and borne and carried from the wings of the morning to the far side of the sea. Something patiently and persistently persevering from the Womb of the Morning, for the Deepest Longings of My Soul. Something in The Air. From The Beginning. Lingering. Across Time. Still. In Space.

Whispers.

I hear them. Whispers. Of tiny feet, now big. Running. Down hallways. Up staircases. Tiny bellies, now firm with age. Laughing. Tender hearts, still tender. Screeching. With joy. Big. With compassion. Whispers. Of fights, with their screamings. Of tears, with their cryings. Of daily life, with pancakes flipping and cannonballs jumping and bicycles biking and hikings hiked. Whispers. Of the seas in my past. The beaches we walked. Of the mountain tops we explored. The trails we have endured. From my wedding, with all its hope. Of births, with all their miracles. From vacations, and all their memories. Of Deaths, in their silence. Of Pain, and beauty. Soft quiet like clouds whispers. Deep blue like sky whispers. That meet me. From there to here. When I stop. To Listen. Closely. Pull my hair behind my ear and give my to hear. Quietly. Ignoring distractions. Intently. Listening. Alone. I can hear them, still, in the air. Whispers. Of laundry. Humming. It's last lullaby. Of baby clothes. Of a door. Slamming. It's last slam. Of Goodbye. A clock. Ticking. It's last tick. Of Divorce. Whispers. Of Pain. Whispers From Beauty. Whispers. From the past. Lifted and borne and carried... in The Air.

Even when I don't. Hear Them. Even when I don't. Stop. Listen. Closely. Quietly. Intently. Alone. There's something in The Air. Still.

Whispers.

I hear them. Prayers. Laments. Song. Whispered. Quietly. Intently. Alone. Given breath in wee hours of the morning when the world crashing against me was dead asleep. Given life in the waters, that fell from the outermost edge of my eye. Sinking in pillows, deep blue pain like clouds and deep blue beautiful like sky. With whispers. Yes. There's something in The Air. Here. In Maui and Missouri. Quietly lifted and lovingly borne and gently carried in The Air. Words and melodies and cries. Prayers and Laments and Song. Breathed out. In The Beginning. In the Womb of the Morning. Lifted and borne and carried. Across Time. In Space. Lingering, and waiting, and remaining. Still. In The Air.

And when the Wind blows,

Whispers.

Move.

Awaken my ears. Move. In my heart. Breathe. Kindling embers of a flaming flame that shall not be quenched. And I burn. With Pain. With Beauty. And the four frozen corners of my heart and mind and body and soul... melt. Bring life. To The Whispers. In The Air.

The air here in Maui and Missouri, in The Land Of The Living, carries whispers. Hard to hear over humming appliances, slamming doors, and ticking clocks. Over the noise of my mind, the clamor of chaos, the dailyness of everyday life. Whispers, are only heard. Alone. In my heart and my mind and my body and my soul. In silence.

Silence. Sacred. Sighing. Selah. Return to The Beginning. Silence. Once upon a time, was big. It was all around. Easy to find and hard to escape. Silence, once deafening is now hard to hear for the Noise, of the World Crashing Against Us Does Not Care. Noise. Sucking the air, out of life, inhaling whispers. That it can't. Inhale. Drowning embers, quenching flames. That it can't. Quench flames that shall not be quenched.

Noise. Big noise that's all around and small noise that fills in the cracks. Noise. Easy to find and hard to escape. Stops me. From pulling the hair back behind my ears. Stops me. From giving my ears. Blocks me. From hearing. The Word of His mouth. Heaven speaks. From The Beginning. Continually. Drops as the rain. Distills as the dew. As the small rain upon a tender herb, in the cracks. In pillows. Showers upon the grass, all around. In The Air. Whispers. In the wee small hours of the womb of the morning. Alone. Still. In the silence.

There Something. In The Air. Lifted and borne and carried. Here. From the wings of the morning to the far side of the sea. In The Land Of The Living.

Whispers

I hear them.

The world crashing against us does not care

Can't stop.

Whispers

I hear them.

Listen

Don't you?