Five thin, cylindrical pipes of peace have been constructed as such that they are banded together and hanging from the backyard door, clanging together diatonic, pleasing, consonant notes, encouraging wind patterns and hell, even hurricanes. To be swooped up by gale force winds – what a ride, what a trip. Wind chimes make the birds chirp and increase the curiosity of squirrels as they paw the earth searching for spare bird seed and acorns come fall. Dreamcatchers of the wind. Whittled by hand and blessed by the tree from which their bark comes. So much significance in a living thing, so much significance in color. Dancing wind chimes, looking over a meager suburban kingdom.
When visited by spirits, sometimes wind chimes are known to move on their own, without wind as we know and see it. It has happened to me, and that experience will not be forgotten. Wind chimes as currency, navigating a brutal and unjust world with peaceful noise. Wind chime farm, all for sale, producing a cacophony of good will well wishes. Perhaps, sacred ground above where they hang. Slippery elm trees engraved on them, harkening back to their own Mother Earth. Their pipes twirl and hit into each other, some wooden, some metal, some plastic. Perhaps existing as an example and testament to say something along the lines of, “Let life have its way; We will go with the currents and still sing”. No more angry beating of drums and marching to old revolutionary fifes. No more defeated shuffling of feet, blistered and bruised. I long for a time of peace and meditation, overcoming with transcendence and non-engagement.