All streams have a voice. The small river of my childhood rattled and gurgled over stones as it tumbled its way down from the mountain. The brook of Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin babbles and rolls along with a consistency that keeps the mill wheels turning.

 Out on the west coast last weekend, I took a favourite evening walk alongside a stream that has a different voice.

 For, you see, this stream has no stones. Not even pebbles. It glides over the satiny sandy stream bed. And its voice is quiet.

 Not even a murmur. More of a gentle slide, a ripple and sometimes a sigh. Then silence. Only the flitting wax eyes and the roosting tuis punctuate the silence with their song.

Walking or sitting by this sandy stream in the evening soothes away all my rough edges. The city becomes a distant dream. I am washed clear. The voice of the stream says, let go, enter my rhythm. It’s the rhythm of being. Just be. The rhythm of release.
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