Aviazje could feel motion, not just see it, but feel it. Whenever the trees moved around him, he would stand and sway with them, feeling the wind blow through, taking him along for the ride. These were special moments when he could stand alone in the woods and let the trees and wind do their thing.
To Aviazje, the fields around his house weren’t just fields, they were a symphony. When the wind blew the rye grass or the wheat, he watched as the orchestra of blades and stalks play their opus, rounding out the set with crescendos and then softer, softer.
He thought the whole world saw what he saw, felt what he felt, and sensed what he sensed. But apparently, they didn’t. His friends at school laughed and made fun of him when he swayed to the music in class, or bounced in tune to the happy beats he heard in his head – sometimes they came from the records or tapes that the teacher played, and sometimes they came from all of the recordings he had stored in his mind.
He couldn’t control his automatic reactions to the music or to the sights. But, after his classmates laughed at him over and over, he learned ways to ignore the impulses to move with the music and to block out the motions he saw and felt.
When he was in public, he would walk around with his hands in his pockets and his head down, trying not to sense anything around him. But it didn’t work for long. Looking down, he started seeing patterns in the sidewalk cracks, and motion flowed through his body from that.
Not understanding what was going on, he eventually wished he would go blind, deaf, or numb. Maybe being dead would solve his problem, he thought to himself on occasion. But then, he would look out across the fields, run into the woods, and let himself be swept up in the glory that surrounded him from every side.
When storms came and thunder rolled, he could feel the heartbeat of heaven. When it rained, he could feel the tears of blessing fall upon the ground. Then, as he walked across his yard, he would sense the earth’s heart beating along with his – a different rhythm, distinctly its own – but a heartbeat, coming from below his feet. And what a pounding it gave off. What a thunderous roar it would lurch forward with and remind him it was good to be alive – to feel the motions he saw.
After that day, whether he was inside his house or at school in class, he would simply touch the walls, the floor, or his desk and feel the vibrations tell him of the song that had been sung throughout time.
Then, he would lay in the yard looking up toward the sky with palms stretched downward, and touch the ground. He let the orchestra of grass, dirt, and air play their melodies and pulsate their rhythms through his little body. In moments like that he was in tune with his core. No one could ever take that away.
# # #
I can be reached at martyjreep(at)yahoo.com. If you enjoyed this article, check out some of my other stuff at http://www.Amazon.com/author/reep
Marty Reep 