Church Bells

There is a Methodist church just a block or so from me. Shortly after the lockdown started, I began to hear them playing their bells each day for about fifteen minutes, just before eleven.

When I am fortunate enough to be home and get to hear the music start playing, I immediately stop whatever important work I am doing and go outside on the porch to listen.

I set my feet on the ground to reconnect to the earth, lean back in my chair, let the notes carry me away, and remember to breathe for at least those fifteen minutes of the day. 

Some of the songs I know, and my mind supplies the choir to sing along. Some of the songs are unfamiliar, and for those, I just listen to the tones ringing through the air. 

My anxiety levels drop noticeably; the music helps me to remember that all will be well; that this, too, shall pass. I notice my breath, the beauty of the day, the flowers cheerfully waving from their beds.

I appreciated the music so much that I took a walk over there one day, and dropped off a thank you note addressed to the person who plays the bells. Knowing church ministers as I do, I must admit I wasn't overly surprised to receive a thank you for my thank you in the mail a week or so later.

Among other lovely things, she said, "the congregation was looking for ways to connect with the people in the area, wanting to let people know they are not alone." Beyond my immediate neighbors, I still know few of the people who live nearby. I don't know if I know any of the people who attend the church. But the music has worked its magic and when I hear the bells, I know I am not alone in my worries and fears and wish to connect. I feel as if I would be welcome should I ever poke my nose inside the doors of the church. Just knowing that helps to calm my soul a little bit.

They are all at home, but the good people are still out there somewhere. Figuring out ways to safely reach out to connect and love and live.

Good Is.