It is a lovely day in Little Egypt. There is a chilly wind that feels like spring. Yesterday it was so windy that I could hear limbs and trees breaking as I wrote on the Writing Porch.

Writing is a balm for me. If I feel a bit out of sorts writing centers me. I am in my 10th year of almost writing every day. As my British friends would say writing helps me sort things out.

We are a noisy people. We are never far from our beloved media. At times it is the third person in a two-party conversation. Listening has become a lost art. Sit with your friend or loved one for a season and see if one or both of you are uncomfortable with the silence.

We look to our mentors and leaders to tell us what is important. We are saving our brain power for the next meme.

It is amazing what you can hear when you are listening. The sound of a woodpecker busily about his vocation. The sound of wind as it makes its invisible presence known. The sound of hope emanated from the sick. The sound of desolation from the lonely. The sound of happiness from the loved.

Surrounded we are by the artificial. The jigsaw puzzle we have constructed for our lives does not allow the luxury of listening. A graveyard has a sound…the sound of memories…

Faith has sound of a sense of place and hope. Hope has the sound of the waves lapping against the shore.

Eyes have the sound of love or sadness or fear. Eyes speak volumes if we take the time to listen.

Hands have the sound of labor and love and caring.

Our bodies have a language if we will listen.