The Voice of an Island

“But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand, and the sound of a voice that is still.” Tennyson

Stop! Put the magazine down. Walk outside. Stand still. Listen. Hear the sounds? It’s the voice of this island speaking.

Good. Now you can go back in and resume reading.

It’s summer, and the Island Choir is tuning up. It sings. Voices of an island, or any place, are everywhere. Night or day, the voices have a tongue all their own. The island is alive. It sings through a cacophony of sounds.

Life is everywhere. From Epworth to East Beach; Village Pier to Cannon’s Point; Light House to Tree Spirits; and Front lawn to Farmer’s Market. It mixes with morning walkers, cell-phone talkers and sidewalk bikers. The message is the same: “Get out, get out.”

Island voices are diverse. Sounds emanate from the wind, the ocean, the sands, the stars and the oak trees. The Pavarotti of them all is the still, quiet voice of the marshes. Its constant chorus is, “Welcome home.” With such a synthesis of voices, it’s difficult to hear them individually. They simply form the collective unity of a single choir.

Small-town churches know something about choirs. Faces from the choir loft gaze down from their perch above the pulpit. New singers mix with older, more seasoned ones, including the octogenarians who often sing a half-note off key. Their individual voices coalesce, forming a collective chorus even John Wesley would appreciate.

Today’s voices begin early for me. Mr. Coffee is awake and working. Teresa blows the horn, the signal she’s pitched the papers on the lawn. I shamble outside, leaving inside the fog of last night’s sleep.

I pause on the door stoop, observing the bird feeders. They teem with chatter and movement. A couple of squirrels scrounge beneath for left-overs or acorns left buried. Even small creatures need daily bread.

Bird feeders speak in their own way. With the exception of the jay birds, the others, seemingly irrespective of size, seem to co-exist on the seed portals. Jays are the feeder bullies, squawking incessantly their displeasure with interlopers.

Shards of sunlight streak through the magnolias. A slight breeze tickles the tops of the palm fronds. Nature is speaking to nature, “Wake up, wake up.” We who observe are only witnesses to this spectacle of life.

Those with screened porches know there’s no better place to sit and contemplate absolutely nothing. A porch rocking chair does wonders in helping to empty yesterday’s mental thoughts and prepare it to deal with today’s details.

Alas, there are other voices, ones that shatter the tenor of the island. Lawn mowers and leaf blowers, curses to endure, but necessary nonetheless. Everything has a voice.

The local farmers’ markets hold a daily symphony. Rows of boxes are filled with fresh produce. Alive and colorful, the fruit and vegetables sing of family dinners past and more to come.

Pat, the owner of one, is a friend. I asked her where the produce comes from. She said mostly small farms in South Georgia. She said under her shed the hands of many people join in a common connection…growers, harvesters, deliverers and purchasers. She affirms we’re all part of a larger community.

It’s easy to hear the multiple voices of an island on the beach. The unforced rhythm of a slow beach walk speaks to all of our physical senses. We can experience it, but we cannot hurry it. Anxiety has no place in nature’s pace.

Yesterday I sat outside at the local bakery savoring a cinnamon donut. Across the street, Fourteenth Street snakes down to Neptune Park. It’s still a short dirt street, one of those that meanders around the oak trees. A couple strolls down it, holding hands and looking at each other. Clearly, love was the subject of their voices.

What exactly is the voice of an island anyway? Is it not each of us who join to sing a part? Perhaps it’s only a small part, and maybe we often sing a half-note off key. Yet in the larger sense we’re members of an enormous choir. Our individual voices echo the voice of an island every moment.

New faces and voices regularly join the Island Choir and mingle with the old, familiar ones. But collectively we all sing the familiar tune of Amazing Grace, which is perhaps the reason we’re all here.


Bud Hearn
May 13, 2016
Copyrights 2016