I’m sitting waiting on a stranger’s back deck listening to the beautiful sounds of nature.
The birds are singing to one another and the trees are whispering their secrets spreading from one leaf to another like ripples that turn into waves that crash up on the beach.
I’m reminded of this book I read late last year: The Hidden Life of Trees, and wonder what old stories are being told in the whispering breeze.
The last month’s challenge has propelled my mind towards contemplations in trying to understand the stories both being and wanting to be told with those needing to be heard.
For no story is ever meaningful unless the listener is ready to receive it. π
My hope is to write the stories waiting to be heard. Or, like the quiet whispers of the trees, in sharing my life stories, one realizes it was just what s/he was waiting to hear. π
~T π
