Sounds
Sunday 25th January 2026, led by Zoe Cuckow
Photo by Bruno Martins on Unsplash
Gathering
We start by settling into a comfortable position, slowly stilling our bodies and breath. We bring our focus into this space surrounded by so many sounds of the earth and city. We open ourselves to all that is around us; the clamour of Piccadilly, the rustling of leaves and branches, the stillness of the garden. We feel ourselves rooted; reaching deep down to the earth and open to the sky.
Readings
The harp at Nature’s advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far;
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.
Excerpt from ‘The Worship of Nature’ by John Greenleaf Whittier
To be native to a place we must learn to speak its language.
I come here to listen, to nestle in the curve of the roots in a soft hollow of pine needles, to lean my bones against the column of white pine, to turn off the voice in my head until I can hear the voices outside it: the shh of wind in needles, water trickling over rock, nuthatch tapping, chipmunks digging, beechnut falling, mosquito in my ear, and something more – something that is not me, for which we have no language, the wordless being of others in which we are never alone. After the drumbeat of my mother’s heart, this was my first language.
Excerpt from ‘Braiding Sweetgrass’ by Robin Wall Kimmerer
A recent study of the marine ecosystem and soundscape of California’s oceans found that during a heatwave in 2015, krill and anchovy populations collapsed. Consequently, blue whale song dropped by nearly 40%. The lead researcher, John Ryan, commented “When you really break it down, it’s like trying to sing while you're starving. They were spending all their time just trying to find food.”
Contemplative Time
You are invited to spend 15 minutes in the Southwood Garden or in your own space.
Regathering
If you would like to, please share any reflections arising from your contemplation.
Readings
The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and its porch with inconsistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognise, rhythms that are not those of the engineer. ….
The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumour. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!
Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks, I am going to listen.
Excerpt from “Rain and the Rhinoceros” by Thomas Merton
Closing Prayer
O God, our Source and Sustainer, open our hearts to the sounds of your presence woven through all Creation. May we welcome and revel in all the world’s more-than-human voices, delighting in their strangeness and mystery. Strengthen us to listen deeply to the earth’s aching cries in the turbulence and unravelling of these days.
Amen
View More Eco-Contemplative Liturgies
