Post by The Observer on Oct 9, 2006 19:31:21 GMT -5
I did not know where to put this, being neither fiction or non-fiction. Not quite real, yet not at all made up. So I put it here. I really do go for long walks throuhg a golf course near my home (it's quite scenic) and this is about someone I met there...
I first met Michael on a walk through the golf course. I like to walk for pleasure and exercise, and occasionally I would meet someone else outside on a walk, but this person was different. He walked slowly, shoulders hunched slightly, his dirty brown hair hanging in front of his eyes. He wore a black coat with no hood, his hands tucked into the coat’s front pockets. He walked so slowly, but it was not with sadness. There was a kind of life about him; a quiet joy that reveled in the simple beauty of a falling leaf or the solemn grandeur of the mighty tree. In every detail his eyes saw beauty. His ears tuned to the laughter of the icy streams and the evening songs of a thousand songbirds. His heart nearly stilled as it strained to catch the elusive melody of Silence.
Of course, I did not know all this at first. My first impression of him was of a slightly odd man. He walked with his head bowed, at times he raised it up toward heaven and muttered something. Or a distant sound would startle in him and he would jerk and look around anxiously for its source. I even heard him singing once. All in all, a rather strange fellow. But one day I decided to talk to him, to meet this strange fellow that walked so often, and always alone.
I approached him and said hi. He looked up at me and said hi and asked me how I was. I said I was fine and commented on how beautiful and evening it was. At mention of the evening he looked at me. And his blue eyes sparkled with a kind of merry wisdom.
“Oh yes,” he said
“The evening is absolutely gorgeous. Have you heard the streams?”
I was a little taken aback by this, it was not a question I was expecting. I answered that I hadn’t really been listening. But he cut me off at once. Nearly giddy with excitement.
“Oh, but you must” he insisted and he hurried me over to a small footbridge and pointed over the edge to where the river ran over some rocks.
“listen”
I listened, and I heard the water running over the rocks. Very tranquil and serene, but nothing spectacular.
“Very nice” I replied
“No! Really listen. Don’t just hear it, listen to it.”
At this point I felt kinda weird. I was sure this guy was crazy. He sounded like some kinda eastern religion fanatic. You know, “become one with nature” kind of a thing.
But, despite my misgivings, I listened. I strained my ears to try to do more than just “hear”. It didn’t make much difference. It was still just a stream, and I was feeling sillier by the minute. Michael must have known what I was thinking because he spoke up,
“Just relax, don’t think about how you look or how you feel. Just be. Listen to the stream, don’t think about anything except what it sounds like. Each sound, every ripple and drip. Every note by itself, and every note together. Perfect harmony. Break it apart piece by piece. Try just to hear the sound of the water over a single rock, then just the rocks without the water. Listen.”
And then something amazing happened. I heard the stream. I mean, I listened to it. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced. It was like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, only it was my ears. I could hear each note by itself, or all together, I heard the stream as beautiful melody and a perfect harmony. I was overcome with wonder, beside myself with disbelief and awe. It was simply amazing that something so simple could be so beautiful. But what was more amazing was that I had gone for so long without hearing the stream’s beauty before.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Michael must have somehow known that I was finally listening, maybe it showed on my face, maybe he just knows these things.
“Simply beautiful,” He half whispered
“so delicate and fragile. So perfectly balanced. Everyday it’s like this. Every night too,” he seemed to add as an afterthought
“it plays its perfect music as part of God’s never-ending symphony. It never truly ceases, always here to bring us peace and joy at a moment’s notice. Yet for all that, no one listens. No one listens to the streams anymore…”
He trailed off sadly, lost in thought.
“Remember this, remember how to listen, it will come in handy in your life. I guarantee it.”
And with a small smile he turned and put his hands back in his pockets. Then, shoulders hunched slightly, he shuffled away. Staring toward the ground as he mumbled a forgotten song beneath his breath. To anyone else he would have looked quite crazy, but I knew better.
I knew he was listening.
I first met Michael on a walk through the golf course. I like to walk for pleasure and exercise, and occasionally I would meet someone else outside on a walk, but this person was different. He walked slowly, shoulders hunched slightly, his dirty brown hair hanging in front of his eyes. He wore a black coat with no hood, his hands tucked into the coat’s front pockets. He walked so slowly, but it was not with sadness. There was a kind of life about him; a quiet joy that reveled in the simple beauty of a falling leaf or the solemn grandeur of the mighty tree. In every detail his eyes saw beauty. His ears tuned to the laughter of the icy streams and the evening songs of a thousand songbirds. His heart nearly stilled as it strained to catch the elusive melody of Silence.
Of course, I did not know all this at first. My first impression of him was of a slightly odd man. He walked with his head bowed, at times he raised it up toward heaven and muttered something. Or a distant sound would startle in him and he would jerk and look around anxiously for its source. I even heard him singing once. All in all, a rather strange fellow. But one day I decided to talk to him, to meet this strange fellow that walked so often, and always alone.
I approached him and said hi. He looked up at me and said hi and asked me how I was. I said I was fine and commented on how beautiful and evening it was. At mention of the evening he looked at me. And his blue eyes sparkled with a kind of merry wisdom.
“Oh yes,” he said
“The evening is absolutely gorgeous. Have you heard the streams?”
I was a little taken aback by this, it was not a question I was expecting. I answered that I hadn’t really been listening. But he cut me off at once. Nearly giddy with excitement.
“Oh, but you must” he insisted and he hurried me over to a small footbridge and pointed over the edge to where the river ran over some rocks.
“listen”
I listened, and I heard the water running over the rocks. Very tranquil and serene, but nothing spectacular.
“Very nice” I replied
“No! Really listen. Don’t just hear it, listen to it.”
At this point I felt kinda weird. I was sure this guy was crazy. He sounded like some kinda eastern religion fanatic. You know, “become one with nature” kind of a thing.
But, despite my misgivings, I listened. I strained my ears to try to do more than just “hear”. It didn’t make much difference. It was still just a stream, and I was feeling sillier by the minute. Michael must have known what I was thinking because he spoke up,
“Just relax, don’t think about how you look or how you feel. Just be. Listen to the stream, don’t think about anything except what it sounds like. Each sound, every ripple and drip. Every note by itself, and every note together. Perfect harmony. Break it apart piece by piece. Try just to hear the sound of the water over a single rock, then just the rocks without the water. Listen.”
And then something amazing happened. I heard the stream. I mean, I listened to it. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever experienced. It was like a veil had been lifted from my eyes, only it was my ears. I could hear each note by itself, or all together, I heard the stream as beautiful melody and a perfect harmony. I was overcome with wonder, beside myself with disbelief and awe. It was simply amazing that something so simple could be so beautiful. But what was more amazing was that I had gone for so long without hearing the stream’s beauty before.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Michael must have somehow known that I was finally listening, maybe it showed on my face, maybe he just knows these things.
“Simply beautiful,” He half whispered
“so delicate and fragile. So perfectly balanced. Everyday it’s like this. Every night too,” he seemed to add as an afterthought
“it plays its perfect music as part of God’s never-ending symphony. It never truly ceases, always here to bring us peace and joy at a moment’s notice. Yet for all that, no one listens. No one listens to the streams anymore…”
He trailed off sadly, lost in thought.
“Remember this, remember how to listen, it will come in handy in your life. I guarantee it.”
And with a small smile he turned and put his hands back in his pockets. Then, shoulders hunched slightly, he shuffled away. Staring toward the ground as he mumbled a forgotten song beneath his breath. To anyone else he would have looked quite crazy, but I knew better.
I knew he was listening.