Octaves of the Earth

The earth sings. The earth thrums.  These are real,  audible sounds, a form of music that accompanies the  dance of the masculine and feminine.  It is the echo of the  spontaneity of appearances arising in this realm of things made dense.  Sadly, it is drowned out in our day-to-day world of “civilized” events.  Yet on it goes, as delicate as it is powerful- singing, thrumming.

I am not just poetically speaking.  When in the wilderness as I was  last week, I hear these sounds.  Not during walking or making camp or busying myself with whatever.  But when I am still, rested amidst an undisturbed nature.

In the past, when I first heard the singing, it was only when going to sleep at night.  I would hear a high-pitched sound, like distant sing song voices on a tinny transistor radio.  Something heard but words not distinguishable.  It is almost like music from India or even American Indian singing of the high-pitched wailing kind.  It is not loud.  It can’t be focused on or it is lost.  It is simply there.  Now as I sit in the vicinity of a creek, melted into the surroundings, there it is.  It somehow pervades the area,  it is not located in one place but is certainly in relationship to the water.

For the longest time I thought I was just having a nervous experience, alone and vulnerable in a place where there are no guarantees.

I realized on my last time out in wilderness that was not the case.  They indeed are voices, it is music, it is just not made of human origin.  It is not the water bouncing over the rocks and creating harmonics.  It is the feminine voice of nature.

And for the first time I heard its counterpart, the deep thrumming of the earth.  It was while lying down both in the morning and in the evening.  It sounds like a large machine churning far away.  I would sit up and try to capture a direction only to lose the sound.  I would lay back down and the thrumming, the deep churning would again make itself known, deep below all other sounds.  I realized it is the masculine voice of nature.  Not a voice per say, but a sound.  A constant sound.

Mountains, stones and trees, grasses and dirt, clouds, sky  and water.  A confronting vastness that at first seems so solid.  Yet stand there, go nowhere, even while walking  go nowhere, be present where you are and suddenly this seeming solidity yields its secret.  It did not happen just once.  It is happening now.  It is arising just as you are arising in the very same instant.  It is a paradox and offers no explanation,  just presence.  It is.

And the music of the earth, the thrumming of the earth, they are inseparable from this. They are witness to it, part of it,  they announce it.  They are not always heard but they are always there.  The high pitch musical voice, the deep thrum, the spontaneous presence of things become dense.  The trilogy of nature.


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