Last night I slept warmly enough. My window was open to welcome the sound of the rain I had just gone walking in. My tea steeped gently beside me, and reminded me home. It was a pleasant walk I had. I do not mind the wet, I love the feeling of the water landing on me. Also I am a little vain, if only for myself, so I appreciated my appearance also.
My route was familiar as last year both as a result of my plans and whims I explored campus often. I headed last night toward a tree I favor near the football field with plans of passing the Kinesiology building where the swimming pool. Naturally, so late at night, the lights were off in the building but I can remember how pretty that room is when the lights reflect on the water.
I do not recall, nor exactly do I wish to, my thoughts as I walked up the hill. It was a peaceful time despite the downpour and the wind. Occasionally I paused to swipe with my foot away the leaves and debris that rested on and blocked the storm drains. Habit? Impulse? I am not sure. Eventually though while still enamored with the sounds and feel of the raindrops and the wind, I crested the hill and looked down onto the -almost- deserted Redwood Bowl.
As I paused there I heard a sound, like a flute. I was sure I had imagined it though. I grew distracted a moment by the road that led toward the forest, it beckoned to me strongly, though I could not see the trees (despite their size) in the dark. I could feel it, pulling at my heart to enter it. I resisted with difficulty, remembering my promise to my mother not to enter the woods in during the storms. I'll not regret that decision for what happened instead made up for it tenfold.
I resumed my earlier quest with my intentions of reaching my tree. Descending the steps between the metal gate separating the athletic area of campus, I heard the flute call again. In that instant I wanted to run towards the sound, to know if it was real. I hesitated though, but I had my fingers crossed in my wet pockets that I would hear it again. It was all I could think.
I walked slower. I didn't listen harder per se, but I found myself more aware of my surroundings. Right as I was a yard away from the slightly ostentatious lumberjack sign, I heard it again. The flute! This time it was more than just a note calling but almost a tune. I could not see where it was coming from but my feet directed me towards the sound. First I walked along the runner's track that I tell myself I ought to utilize weekly but never manage to, I could make out the tone of the flute and I was confident in my scant musical abilities that I was sure I was not missing any notes in the song.
I had to walk toward it. My rational mind knew there was someone playing somewhere nearby, but there was something so ethereal of the situation. It felt like a movie, like a book, like a dream. Not quite like real life. There was no one else around but myself and the still unseen musician.
I detoured to the water clogged "grass" of the football field in the direction of the football field. Through the rain near the middle of the field I could make out a shadowy figure sitting high up in the sheltered bleachers. Yes, someone of course was there and practicing their instrument.
I was only glad to have discovered this, I decided to leave him in peace and go towards my favorite tree. But it felt like I shared a secret now with this player, a moment that only we might know about. As I reached my tree and leaned against it, I listened to the song being played. He really was talented. I have no idea what type of flute he might have been playing. I wonder what caused him to play alone, in that place and that time. I grew wetter though as the rain steadily and with regret had to resume my walk.
I passed the stands, enjoying still the rain and the wind, hoping to show my presence to the musician in case he would rather have remained private. I was grateful when he didn't. Up the stairs I went, farther from the lone player than the other steps. It was not until I passed him I knew that he was indeed a him.
I wanted to tell him I appreciated his sounds but my instinct not to interrupt was stronger. I continued up the stairs and on my way and he continued to play. A car passed in front of me on the street behind Founders Hall, my favorite building on campus and obviously their windows (on the car, not the building) were sealed against the water (the building had closed windows also, but I am referring solely to the car in this instance). I find that driver to be a bit unlukcy. They would have known not what they were missing, as the now more remote and distant sounds of the flute continued behind me. There was no way they could have heard what I had, felt what I felt. Perhaps I was the only one. My goal here is not to brag but only to share.
That whole experience was remarkable. Part of me is still there, still listening to that simple, perfect flute music. Whoever the player may be, I hope he continues to play that way in secluded, calm areas. I also hope he is heard again as I heard him, by someone who will appreciate even more than I his music. A moment like that, I know must be rare. It deserves to be treasured and remembered. It was, quite simply, perfect for mind, soul and imagination.
(please note, anyone concerned with the storms we had over the weekend here in Arcata, that the worst of the weather happened at night, not during the day, and that nothing is wrong on campus.)
