Everyone needs a listening point. A place where you can hear silence. A place where you can be still and know God. A place where you can hear when He speaks in a still, small voice. A place where you can hear the whisper of your own heart. Life is so noisy and busy, some times you can't hear any thing. So you go to your listening point.
I found mine a long time ago. I had permission from the owner. I would take my coffee and go listen. They called it Reflections at Turtle Cove. I called it Moonlight Cove. Long before they named it. Long before they built a house there and I couldn't go there anymore. It's still Moonlight Cove to me.
Because, you know, when you find your self some where on a full moon night. When the air is warm. When there is no wind. When there is not a ripple on the water. Only the huge moon above you, and the water is golden and there are no shadows and you can see the past and the future. Then you fall in love with that place. It will always be yours. Though you be far away, though you cannot go there. It will forever be in the very core of you.
I know why they called it Turtle Cove. I saw them there. All summer and spring and fall. Turtles. Big ones and wee baby ones and in between ones. They hung out there, like teenagers in a parking lot. Little fish darted there. Frogs boomed and caught unwary dragon flies. Dragon flies with iridescent wings. King fishers croaked from the trees.
In the mornings the water was gauzy with mist. Mist rising with the warmth of the sun. Mist hiding reality and making it swirl. Then the sun would slip up and the mist would rise, and there would be the shore line reflected in the mist and in the water. Three paintings, beauty tripled. Then the morning breeze would break up the painting. Pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle. Just before it disappeared.
The afternoon sun . Once I saw it turn the pickerel weed golden. Shimmering golden in the blue water. I reached out and picked one, but in my hand the beauty faded. Evening has mist, too. Eerie mist. Then the geese talk, but you can't see them. Only their voices float over the mist. Bats dart, and swallows.
Starry nights. When the sky is velvet and there is no moon. When the owls talk. And the coyotes call. Sometimes the wind whispers in the pine trees. Some times the rain dimples the water. Sometimes little wavelets splash, splash against the shore. Sometimes boys skinny dip on the other side of the point. I hear them running through the woods, and I turn my back on them. They never know I am there.
I tell the owner my adventures, and he loves them with me." You should have seen last night," I say. "The moon was so beautiful, reflected in the water." Later when he lives there, we have coffee and he says" You should see, Annie. Our Christmas tree is reflected in the water at night. It's beautiful." We laugh, he and I, because we both have this place in our hearts.
Now he can no longer be there. At Turtle Cove. The house is cleaned out. It will be sold. I go for one last tryst . When I know no one is there. I walk out to the listening point. It is fall. The trees are a blaze of glory. The water is still. The spot where I sit is shadowy. The old magic is still there. I can hear the silence. I can feel God. I can hear my heart. My heart sings a song. About moon light cove. About years gone by. About old friendships. About the times and the seasons. About reflections. Good byes are only reflections of hellos. Sadness is a reflection of joy. Here my heart will always find a listening point. Because it is here in my heart.
