The ocean swells with towering waves that crash against the crags and exposed rock of the western isles as gales lash these Neolithic island shores. Small fish are blown with the spray-laden air onto the northern landscape.
Through the fathomless unrest of Atlantic squall, lost and confused, whales call to one another as they emerge in the shallow waters.
The majestic form of an immense aquatic mammal has turned to stone amid the becalmed beauty of an ice-cold wilderness that follows the charge of storm. There is no sound, yet in our heart we hear the faint and distant chorus of deep ancestral song.
The beauty of art, song, and word, is that we can be made more by them.
When I hear the voice of another I am transformed. When I return to a voice in thought, I give my time, I listen, I ponder. This is true for any living thing, but especially for those people I love.
What is magical is that I can imagine as I do with Whale Song, and that this becomes real. By real I mean genuine, authentic. Something real is undeniable. It holds truth I experience directly. Qualities are real despite my never being able to touch them directly, for example hope, joy, sadness, and love.
As I read the first passage above once again, I think of how the whale's song travels great distances, despite storm and sea. That their need to connect is as my need to do so, and that despite their passing, their voice continues to touch me, through time, as the voices of my ancestors and those I love.