I once sat in a sacred song circle and the song leader played a little recording to us at one point of someone speaking in what seemed like very high-pitched ultra-fast gibberish. But the song leader assured us that, far from gibberish, this was a channeled communication from benign galactic beings, refining our collective consciousness. And this channeler had a website, and if we were to visit there three times a day for her recorded messages, our consciousness could be raised, and we would thus be participating organically in humanity’s accelerated collective evolution, so desperately needed – as well as foreordained (that was the implication, though the song leader didn’t use that word) at this critical moment in human history.
I deemed all this a bit much to buy into, though the song leader had credibility with me for other reasons.
A handful of months later I sat on a bench atop Mount Tabor, and I noticed a loud, sharp, repetitive birdsong quite close to me somewhere. It went on and on for at least five to ten minutes, a pattern about five seconds long, lodging into my synapses, as I sat there and felt like I couldn’t move.
That is, I thought vaguely about moving, about getting on with my day, but I just didn’t. There was no coercive force constraining me from leaving the bench (at least none that I perceived). Yet, when the birdsong finally ceased – abruptly – I realized I “could” go. I was released.
Not that I’d been imprisoned exactly.
Compelled maybe.
I thought, Maybe that birdsong was altering my consciousness like that trippy lady’s voice the song leader introduced in that circle months ago.
In fact, MAYBE that lady is REALLY channeling BIRDS, not “galactic beings”! And maybe birds ARE galactic beings in that they are far wiser than we know and hence their language, like their motions sometimes (for example: stillness … quick cock of the head! … stillness …) are very, very fast, too fast for us to follow consciously.
But seriously, I know next to nothing about birds and I imagine any bona fide ornithologist who actually has studied birds and their languages might scoff at what I just wrote. Still, I think that in all probability, as I sat on that bench, I was – to put it crudely – being programmed by birdsong. Quite possibly this happens all the time and we don’t notice.
Anyway, though I was perfectly free to move once the song stopped, I chose to linger on the bench for a while, listening contentedly to some other birds having conversations, quieter, less shrill, a bit farther away.
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