Sandhill Cranes

Today I was reminded of the rusty bugle call of the Sandhill Crane as it methodically returned north in its spring migration. That unique raspy call has been heard on this earth for thousands of years, long before my language was ever spoken or heard.

One Sandhill Crane is remarkable to hear. When there is a sedge of cranes gathered in a field of grain and grass, the primal cacophony stirs the soul. There is a deep reverberation, that, like the collective Ohm of a signing bowl, makes my bones vibrate with life’s energy.

Or, the trumpeter swan. I have been stopped in my tracks as the flapping of their seven foot wings, awakens my ears to the graceful disturbance of the atmosphere over head. And then they call. A deep, loud and trumpet-like call. It is startling when there is a single bird overhead, and when there is a bevy that rests on the water, all jabbering together, the excitement in my soul, is like the childlike anticipation of the world’s biggest ferris wheel ride.

My voice, so small in comparison, so singular, so young in the earth’s historical cacophony of sounds, seems insignificant in the grand scheme of life. And yet, so often I am touched deeply by the words and sentiments given to me by others. Friends, strangers, poets, authors, composers, writers, theologians, philosophers, can impact me in lasting ways. Might my voice matter?

Each voice, each new idea, new perspective, can be an opportunity to wake up, to pay attention. Might even a laugh, or simple sigh, become our teacher if we notice it? Can one voice invite noticing, like the call of one Sandhill Crane, or one Trumpeter Swan? And, if we join our voices together, what then? Might even the surrounding silence become famous?