Seaside Symphony

The road by our dorm is a young boy's wonderland of dump trucks backing up beeping, scattering gravel and dumping rock, caterpillars dozing mounds and smoothing piles of dirt like icing on a cake, workmen in hard hats raking and steam rolling pathways, mountains of pebbles and chunks of blacktop piled everywhere - all in preparation for the St Louis Rams' summer training in several weeks. Such an environment doesn't really lend itself to quiet meditation.

There is also a plague of mosquitoes in the evenings, likely riled by all the earth moving, that discourages even the most hearty soul from walking around out of doors. Still, its difficult to pluck up enough courage to wend your way past the noise of deconstruction in the daytime, tiptoeing around stakes and strings and yellow flags, dodging the huge machines to try to get somewhere close to the bluffs.

It is that desperate need to stretch one's legs that finally wins out, so at 9am, I pushed past the staring construction workers (I am sure they thought I was crazy to be wandering about in sandals!), sludged my way over soggy, straw-strewn newly planted and heavily watered lawn to the pathway above the cliff.

The lake was a sparkling ocean of sunbeams dancing about in unrestrained joyous abandon - a vision of diamonds well worth the work to get there. As I started down the winding path, the noise of topside faded away. Suddenly I was aware that every bird you could imagine was balancing on some weed or bush, startled by my presence, flitting to a thistle just a bit farther ahead, hop scotching to a new perch as I navigated my way towards the bottom. As I gazed down the hill, it was like seeing a huge Chinese checker board with freely roving marbles.

About halfway down, I stood still, suddenly aware of the glorious song filling the air around me. There must have been a thousand crickets chirping steadily against the swooshing strings of the waves rolling against the sand, ebbing, flowing. The mourning dove's melody took the lead, punctuated by the percussive accents of gulls and crows, perfectly timed as if dictated by an unseen score.

Little yellow finches flitted about, twittering a descant while orange-winged blackbirds sang a throaty alto. I sat on the warm concrete and closed my eyes, listening as the sounds floated about me, now delicate and quiet, now rowdy and invasive, now mellow and cheery, calming to a whisper, raised to a ruckus. Neither tonal nor atonal, it fit perfectly together with tuneful repetitions in a thousand different combinations. I never tired of hearing it unfold about me like the warmth of a comfy shawl.

Ah, such glorious ambrosia, and free for the inhaling. Perhaps exercise of the soul is even better than exercise of the legs!