This morning I rise early enough to witness the “big colour show” before sunrise. Orange and yellow deepen and fade, transformed by growing light into gold, gold, gold reflected on the underside of fluffy clouds. The ravens call out at sunrise. The woodpeckers search for food; their percussive-beaking sounds mechanical, man-made. When were humans first inspired by the woodpeckers’ amazing skill? What did humans create from the woodpecker inspiration: what tool to use, what sound to communicate, what art to honour?

I walk with Athena to the little park. She fetches sticks, sniffs the park for signs of friends, of rabbits, of birds. I wander the familiar lawn, the pocket park of trees and bushes. My body is a bit stiff from days of paddling followed by days of driving, and, now, treading water inside the house. I stop and stretch, working on each joint, each big muscle group. My right ankle needs attention, my low back, my right shoulder. I turn on a podcast.

Bjork talks about field recordings on a MailChimp sponsored podcast. The sound of ice breaking. The sound of a volcano rumbling. The sound of a choir of voices shaped by a director with values of rigour and love. They talk about 360 degree sound– placing microphones above each individual singer and positioning larger microphones at the top of an umbrella-of-sound above them. Immersion in sound experience. My heart expands: I identify joy.

I stumble further in the podcast realm to listen to MC Taylor of Hiss Golden Messenger. They have produced a work titled “Ceremony.” Ceremony is the morning sound/song story of Dad and young Daughter: waking up, breakfast, packing a lunch, driving to school. Chatting happens. A lovely melody. An experience of love and care. My stomach carries unease, grief.

I noticed symphonies of sound this summer. I listened for the striations of sound in rapids, in evening song, in middle-of-the-night callings between loons and owls. Arrivals and departures. Over and over.

Grief flowed through me. I don’t know why. Same for fear. Same for sadness. I tried hard not to identify with it, not to create a story to explain why I felt these emotions. I resisted, but noticed, the urge to relate so much with these emotions as to become them.

Love flows through me. I don’t know why. I resist the urge to identify with it. I am an expression of love. Is that right? I wonder… If I am an expression of love, I am also an expression of fear, grief, sadness, anger, joy, longing. What evidence do I have to support this thinking? What is my bodily experience?

More questions. More walking. More sunrises.

Sound, emotion; each arrives and departs. The gifts of aliveness.