Swimming in the Deeps

When I was a little girl, I grew up in a house where music was a permanent resident from dawn until darkness.  There was always music playing.  My mother practiced her violin every spare moment, and she taught violin in our living room before and after school.  Recordings filled in the gaps.  Solitude in our house was not the absence of noise, but finding a place to reside within it.

Music flowed so deep at times, we swam in the sound, as if having the entire Chicago Symphony Orchestra performing in a rather cramped living room, sound so deep it could be felt.  Often, Mom's music was so loud, it carried me along in the currents of a river, pulling me under thick layers of melodies, releasing me suddenly to gasp for air.   My mom did not even think I was listening.   And all along, I was breathing it in.

I  ran today through a chorus of trees,
       a sanctuary embracing a country road.
I could hear the trees with my eyes,
       and feel their music by the color itself.
The trees were dressed in their Sunday finest,
     worshiping loud and wild as only a forest can,
 a symphony of a thousand shades of green,
         intricate parts rehearsed all winter.
And the trees rejoiced like an ancient choir,
              swaying together, eyes closed, arms raised,
touching for a moment
                  the fringe of His glory.


Then all the trees of the wood sing for joy
      before the LORD,
for He comes...
                           Psalm 98.12

O LORD, our LORD,
    how majestic is Your Name
 in all the earth.

                             Psalm 8.1