Years, ago, on calm spring days when I’d have an hour or two between classes, having grabbed and consumed a cheap, quick lunch from the kiosks, I’d head down to the lawn sloping below the library, above the gyms, next to the famous steps, just off the major walkway from the bus-stops to the lecture halls. And I’d lie down, eyes closed and listen. Young then, I’d never nod off. But, eyes closed, inhaling deeply, the grass prickling my neck, I’d just listen. Class mates chatting. Rowdies shouting. Bands marching, Vehicles humming, Squirrels chittering. Birds squealing. A pianist accompanying a ballet class in the girl’s gym heard through an open window. Les Gymnopédies. All that music: God’s nature, Human voices, machines, Giggles, laughter, bravados. Sometimes, lying there, quiet, listening, not far away, I’d hear a couple sighing. That long ago, and it would be odd, a man my age, now to lie still and listen on a college campus. So I arrive to my synagogue with some minutes to myself before the onslaught of words the encompass, infuse, shape the morning service. I sit. Hand folded and listen. Birds chirping outside the windows Cars wheeling by. The occasional siren screaming. My fellow congregants shuffling, murmuring, humming, wrapping the phylacteries, cloaking in the prayer shawl, tassels dangling. I inhale, exhale, I hear the sighs, the sorrows, The hopes, the joys, the human music of God’s dreams. As we prepare, early morning, to offer praise, give thanks, beg mercy, seek comfort, embrace joy. Maybe, perhaps, after I have listened to this world, I might hear a faint echo of those other worlds from which, I hope, God willing, is absent the sighs and sorrows, and full with sacred exaltations.