There was that mesmerizing traditional Korean music concert several weeks ago. The striking colors of the women’s dresses igniting the sounds that filled the air of the outdoor affair.
The clanging of the metal pots and pans of the stall vendors on still nights, tells stories of families, hard work and earnestness. The fried wontons, the rice cakes, the sizzling meat and chicken on grills, the steaming liquids, wafting in and around the blue and white plastic canopies, swell the night so completely.
The Asian birds singing their songs along crowded streets and tree-lined dirt paths. Ah, their sweet melodic chirping gains my attention far too infrequently. My loss.
The voices of the children: happy and excited, going to school, playing, learning how to share, how to survive, and hopefully, how to thrive. Their sounds fill the streets most mornings here.
The cacophony of older women talking excitedly in groups, passing by or stationed under trees in the shade—out of the sun. They have earned their right to speak boldly, passionately, about anything.
No, the most beautiful sound I have heard these past few months came on Saturday. When, having earlier reached for an old friend of mine, I heard that once familiar sound from long ago. That reassuring smack when the cover of a ball relinquishes itself to the pocket of a glove. Ah, that is the single most beautiful, most satisfying sound I have heard here.
An old friend