Earlier this week my gutters were singing. Yes, the tinkling sounds of the weekend's snow turned water were the first thing I heard upon going outside Monday morning. I excitedly thought, 'The Goddess is singing.' The combo of roof, gutters and water birthed a sound that sparked this thought, a thought I quickly edited for fear people would think I had gone off the deep end, wherever the deep end might be. Besides I told myself I didn't even know exactly what I meant by the goddess is singing.
The following day the dance of the gutters had shifted. The snow nearly gone created a drip, drip, dripping like a clock or metronome keeping time.
Now with today's rain, the gutters sound more like a babbling brook similar to the creek that ran by my grandparents' house, the creek by which my grandmother would spread a blanket for picnics when we were kids. Her pimento cheese sandwiches were delicacies thanks to the magic of sitting by the creek surrounded by daffodils in spring and filled with crayfish in summer.
I do not want to have lived having missed magic. I do not want to have lived having marked time or keeping time by someone else's clock for fear of their judgments. I do not want to live having edited myself for when I do imagination is pruned and experience limited. When I'm gone, I want people to say, "Dawn not only went off the deep end, she lived in the deep end and showed us the richness there."
Earlier this week, the Goddess sang in the tinkling sounds coming from my gutters. This morning she was heard in bird song and last week in the Haitian people making music amidst their sorrow.