Call of the Wind
Picture David’s royal bed,
his oldest lyre suspended, vertically,
overhead . . . all night
an eerie, braided hum-m-m
roused by wind at play
among the strings. Chilled,
blinking — did he
burrow down? We know
cold blooms within
our bones in lonely hours.
Watch with me, as he
rises, lights the hanging lamp,
scrapes away the sand of sleep.
Kneels. Unfurls the Scroll.*
Yours truly, on the other hand, chronic night owl, has finally found a natural cure for my insomnia. A little protein before turning in helps me sleep, at last, in heavenly peace.
Rising in the darkness to meditate appeals to my yen for the mystical: solitude, breath prayers, listening silence.
I could hang Dreamer’s Celtic harp from the ceiling fan . . .
Safer by far to ask Ruach, wind of the Spirit, to occasionally nudge me awake. The older I get, the more I want to spend what hours remain meaningfully.
“Awareness needs constant refreshing,” author Rick Rubin writes.
Call of the Wind
Jesus often got up in the wee hours to listen and pray. Like King David before him, he traversed a world ravaged by terrors and keening need.
Think of it. The same Spirit that breathed on celestial harps and angel choirs at the Savior’s birth later called Jesus to rise, meditate by night in deserts and gardens, on perilous seas and mountainsides.
What was it like that night in Bethlehem, unearthly music filling the air?
Shepherds left their bedding. Lit a torch. Robes furled against the cold, they sought Torah’s promised Messiah: the Living Word.
Creaking knees, a groan, the crackle of flattening straw. Then . . . timelessness: the breath of God, tiny lip-smack and gulp. A hiccup. The baby’s sigh.
All the adults must have stilled in wonder, their mindsets expanding, outlooks extending.
In our day, imagining those small sounds enlarges my soul’s inscape, urging love’s outgrowth.
This Advent, amid our war-torn world — overrun and undermined by outrage, greed, and hype — I am listening for Ruach. Trying to breathe in sync.
O to become a psalm: wind-swept, humming . . .
Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
*Jewish midrash tradition honors David’s lyre-as-alarm-clock, and his tender response.
Quotation, Rick Rubin, The Creative Act: A Way of Being.
Hear a Celtic harp (similar to Dreamer’s) played by wind blowing across an Irish cliff.
Rabbi Israel Goldfarb plays a replica of King David’s lyre here and another song here. (May take a few seconds to download, but so interesting)
You might also enjoy this post from the archives.