It is late at night. The house is quiet. Only the bathroom night-light gives enough direction to recognize some of the bedroom furnishings. Lying there in the bed, the mood for reflection moves across my restless mind. A nighttime prayer has been said, but still I feel anxious and uneasy about something. I seem to want to focus on all my failures and appear to strike against the glow that lights the candle of the future.
It’s not that I’m particularly displeased with my life, or searching for atonement for some hideous act or dread future shortcoming of self. Though uncomfortable in my heart, this self-realization is not troubling to my spirit. So why then can’t I doze off and dream the dream of comfortable?
Dinner was eaten early, so my stomach is not the cause for my alertness. Gastric juices are not locked in combat because the stomach is overloaded. There are no mounds of spicy food particles lying in aggravated heaps in the stomach’s realm. No scary noises haunt the rafters or squeaky doors douse me with ill feelings or fits of peril. Ghosts have been left in memories of an eventful childhood that conjures neither resentment nor nightmare.
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Quietly my breath is identified and the chest rises in a rhythm acquainted with healthy. Ears strain against the quieting calm. Then I hear the bells. Faintly at first, the ringing seems to carry in march-time to the tree branches that accost the bedroom window. A melody that appears air-born drifts lazily from somewhere outside in direction, but approaches me with more volume of sound with each passing note.
Then I recognize the wind chimes that someone gave us for Christmas. I had placed them high in the elm tree that guards the backyard gate. The chimes were erected at the same time as the outdoor Christmas lights were put up. But this was the first time I remember hearing them.
The voices from the chimes mesmerize me into a state of blissful tranquility. Restless thoughts and forged troubles melt away like Arctic fog. The bed feels warm, my tummy eases, and the heart appears comforted by the dancing branches and the air tossed sounds of the wind chimes.
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Rest doesn’t come in abundance, but lingers. Closure is the hand-maiden of restfulness. Then there are more familiar sounds. It has begun to rain. The chimes seem to be in a state of hush. Thunder appears to roam the heavens. The heavy raindrops cascade eventfully, escorted by the sounds of the chimes as if they were both double dated by the wind.
My last thoughts are filled with colorful sounds, as streaks of light race across the room’s ceiling. Sounds that seep through the cracks of the house and pool in my mind like the rainwater has done near the house. I hear the chimes again. Together, the chimes and the raindrops are ground into my subconscious, in a form of preparation that grooms me for tomorrow’s happenings. Sleep finally approaches me like the soft shoulders of my wife. I am lost in the forever.
Tomorrow will bring the sunrise and new founded hope. A hope that is felt in the wind that carries the raindrops and heard in the sound of the wind chimes.
Durhl Caussey is a syndicated columnist who writes for papers around the world. He may be reached through this newspaper or at [email protected].
