By Joseph Anthony, Inspired by the Bark of Bear

They say sound only goes so far before thinning into nothing.  Theoretically sound can travel forever, but alas, they say, sound needs molecules to carry it across time and space, and once those molecules dissipate, the sound falls away like dust.  They also say sound doesn’t exist in space because there are no mediums for the sound to travel with.  In theory sounds can be made in space, they say, but they just can’t go anywhere. 

What they don’t know, or at very least don’t want to know, is that there are mediums other than solids, liquids, and gases with which sound can travel.  In addition, it must be remembered that theory, in Greek, means contemplation or speculation.  It is a form of meditation on the nature of the possible as based on what the meditator wants to experience through his or her senses.  Luckily there are more senses than the usual ones we think of.

There is the sense of spirit, for example.  If you doubt this sense exists, think back to a time you were in a crowded room and felt you were being stared at.  How can someone’s eyes touch you from across the room?  Spirit.  There is also the sense of soul.  Like spirit, it is a conductor of all things invisible, but it also carries in its deep, shadow-dappled pockets—memories—memories of all things sensual.  The soul’s memories themselves are carriers of all that we experience—consciously or unconsciously. We have all been suddenly filled with the aroma of some fragrance from the past—everyone always gives the smell of some sort of pie as an example here, but it can be the scent of grief (yes, grieving has a fragrance, so do all the emotions).  It can also be the aroma of the pages of old, beloved books, magazines, letters, or of the brown-armored millipedes curled up in the corners of the room.  All of these scents are carried via memories on the eternal waves of the soul.

And it is precisely on the senses of spirit and soul that sound travels upon, and travels upon forever.

So when she heard the child singing, the sound was traveling the corridors of the memory, passing through the many spacious rooms of her soul, directly into her heart.  As soon as she heard the singing she rose from her desk and began following the sound.  The sound was woven with light so when she stepped into the cool, autumn night, she could see the sound leading her, like an audible firefly deep into the darkness.  And with the loving, watchful gaze of the moon helping light her way, she followed the singing through the trees, over the little creek, out into the field where it suddenly rose into the surrounding treetops.  Bewildered, she stopped and looked up.

“How am I ev—,” she began, only to find herself rising through the damp, earth-filled air into the waiting canopy of trees.  She swore she heard laughter inside the singing as she grabbed hold of a branch, some 50 feet above the ground.  She looked down at her house and the yard.  They seemed so small, even from where she stood, swaying in the sky.

And then the sound of the singing leapt to the nearest cloud.  When she reached the cloud, close on the heels of that wonderful sound, she was amazed to feel how cold the cloud was to walk through.  It was like walking through feathery snow–pleasant and refreshing.  The laughter in the singing was clearly ringing as the singer loved the game of being followed.  And with the smallest waver in song, the child took hold of a star and swung into space, leaping from star to star as if they were an elaborate, illuminated jungle-gym. 

Of course, she followed—led by, carried by, and sustained by— the singing.

Ah, the singing.  The child sang a melody she had heard when she was a child herself.  It was a song that brought her glad tidings of comfort when all around her the world was crumbling.  It was a melody of light and of celebration.  It was a song of her dreams.  She would break free of the pain surrounding her within and without and she would touch the world with her wisdom and imagination.  No, she would do more than touch the world, she would save the world.  For every story of survival, redemption, and transformation, forgiveness, saves the world.  And her story was one of great courage and triumph.  And so when the child appeared singing the holy song, she heard it immediately.  And immediately it lifted her into the world of the child.  And she followed, gladly, tear-filled, and with the utter relief that comes from a sudden rest after many weary miles traveled.

So the child and the woman sang and played in the stars.  All the while, the song wove through her soul, like the very fragrance of wonder.  And then it happened.  As she swung in a swing suspended from the arms of a star, she realized the singing was coming from her own heart.  She looked up for the child.  The child was nowhere to be seen.  There was the icy grip of panic but then she heard the laughter riding the melody of the singing.  It was definitely coming from within herself.  Resounding through the mansions of her soul, the song of the child echoed and played upon the walls and through the gardens. 

She lazily swung to a stop, and then stepped from the swing.  Relishing a moment cupped in the crescent hands of the moon, she stood, steadying herself for the dive.  With a deep breath, she leapt into the ocean of space down towards her yard. 

And as she descended, she sang, she sang with the child, she sang with the stars, she sang with the planets, she sang with the sun.  She sang with the moon, she sang with the clouds, she sang with the trees, and the grass, that dew-bathed, cool, wet, wonderful grass.  She sang with her feet, she sang with her blood, she sang with her tears, she sang with her lungs.  She sang with her bones and she sang with her hands.  And she sang herself back through the screen door and into the kitchen, where she stood, weeping, singing, praying, with wave after wave of gratitude welling over and through her.

And the child, having been heard and recognized, followed and found, curled up in a cozy bay window in her soul to dream.

She walked back to her desk, like a queen, her stride filled with power and strength, and she picked up the pen.  It flew across the page, spreading the glistening melody of hope and of grace deep into the pages of the night.

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog