Written by: Magdalene Kennedy
I sometimes nap in the van as it rumbles along towards the next rest stop. There’s no particular rhythm to its gentle jolts—at best it could be described as white noise. A random assortment of tiny hums and grunts that cradle my drowsy brain.
Outside the van window this week, huge ripples of earth undulate in every direction, rising to snowy points in the distance. Their formation seems just as random to me as the rhythm of the van, if a bit more visually spectacular. Clouds float so closely to the earth that the scenery is draped in their soft shadows, but I can see no pattern in their feathered formations.
There are rules to music—a careful intentionality that separates a song from the noise of the van. It’s easy for me to hear a melody on the van radio; my thoughts recognize the ups and downs of music that fit cozily into my brain. But the ups and downs of the mountains are too big for my thoughts. I can stare at them all day though the van window or the lens of my camera, yet I’m living in a single note of a song too big for me to hear. It’s still my favorite thing to listen to.
