The Sound of Nomads
Frost clings tight in the night, lingers long into the day, and melts as it may to wash away those jagged memories. The sun simmers tea on a cold afternoon, dripping down icicles, its sound a beat to represent the rising heat. It brings me back home, to the place inside that stays the same as I roam. What is carried through, on these winter journeys, is shaved down slowly. Memories and identities shed like melting snow off my roof.
I hear music from the other room, somehow cozy on this cold winter night – a polite voice in the conversation of my reality. In that moment I am ready to listen, the magnetized voice pulls me to lean in gently.
Closing my eyes, I feel sounds from other spaces. Whispers from far off places inside. Some sounds of stone through a castle wall, some earthen sounds from a beaver dam, some crystal murmurs from a glass cube, some softened sounds from snowscapes, each opening up in me, more space inside, wider, wilder, and wiser. Still in my own space I sit, letting this flame of my attention subtly be lit, giving life to dream.
From grassland, to rocky mountain, rugged terrains change along the way. One step, another step, packs over shoulder, weight keeps spirits grounded. In the seemingly infinite container of wilderness, I, a herder, with my yaks, yoked to this space. I could be a hard rock, a delicate flower, or cheerful glacier water melted by spring. I could be part of this, but dinging bells, rustling fabric, scraping soles... remind me I am just trekking. I am going somewhere through here. All the sounds from the passage and land start to converse. I, a traveler, with my pack animals, recall what this chat is all about. We could be a flying bird, an earthworm, or a fish in the river. We could live on here, but we do not. The melody of the yak bells, the noise from my clothes, the sturdy feet landing on the ground… remind us we are both entering and leaving this wild land. All the sounds, my heart beat, my yaks chewing grass, my light sighs, improvise into song. I, a human, with my companions, fold the music into our packs. We could sing the mountain, the moon, the blinking stars. Only our moaning, howling, bodies dragging packs, feet rubbing ground... remind me that I am a composer, but I am not. I want to sing this song, but this song sings.
As I seek to melt my troublesome frosts, and let go some troublesome thoughts, I feel a drift towards images of deep treks through this frozen time -- this last solar year of halted plans. Movement has come to me from the simplicity of today, cherishing this feeling of open eternal recurrence. Each day I look up at my internal mountain, listen to its bells, smell its smells, and yak my way through, on tried and true paths taken long ago, hidden only now by modern snow.
Breathing in cool air once more, I face only today, not as a chore, but as a yak unburdened and wild once more.