The joyful sound of my son playing basketball in the driveway. The echo of the ball bouncing off the garages, rim and backboard that is wearing loose and has a little jangle from a washer that needs to be tightened. The smile on his face as he heaves that ball toward the hoop is priceless.
My daughter talking to people on the sidewalk as they walk past our house. Her voice whether it is asking questions of the world or singing to herself as she hurdles cartwheels across the yard is the melody of my heart.
There is a different hum this year. Very little rain. Crunchy grass or vibrantly colored out of control weeds. It is funny how that works. The grass that needs the most attention is the fake one that isn't normal and we some how all agreed on that standard.
The smoke has moved on and you can walk outside without feeling like you are breathing in a Canada campfire from thousands of miles away.
I started walking around the lakes this month. There is something too it. Something to seeing other people, all types of people bettering their selves that makes me want to continue to better myself. The smell of sweat, dead fish, lake water although independently gross somehow combine into life. It is kind of like a smelling salt given to someone who has passed out. It is a reminder to come too. That you are here and it is ok or even something better.
The rustle of wind through the trees and leaves has always been a comforting sound to me. I walked a lot as a kid when I needed to work through my thoughts a process that continues to this day. The path of Diamond lake, the Minnehaha parkway, Nokomis, Harriet, Veterans Part and later around Normandale Lake. As I mulled things over in my mind it was always like a choirs in the wind and leaves would answer me back. It would smooth my thoughts, calm my stress and somehow lead me out of what ever path I was on a little bit better than when I went in. For a long time I used to believe this feeling was my father returning to comfort me. In some cases maybe that is true. The never-ending wind blowing that carries a part of all of our breath, all of our sounds, songs and words, echoing in a pattern played in the tall grass and leaves. A pattern we are not meant to understand maybe just feel. I feel connected to eternity when I hear the rustle of the wind in the leaves.
