Out in the California hills far from my home is a place I’ve frequented for many years—a hot springs, complete with an old hotel seated amongst the hills. There are miles and miles and hours and hours of walking trails there. Some trails go up and up and back into the land in several directions. One trail takes the walker past the hotel through a tunnel of trees and then on out into the valley. Once I found an old cow rib back there and carried it back with me as a sign—a good sign. The valley trail skirts a small creek or, if there’s been a lot of rain, a not so small creek. There’s been a recent addition to the landscape. It’s the Wind Chime Memorial Park where, dangling from a number of trailside trees are lots and lots of wind chimes. Walking amongst those trees is to walk into an orchestra of wind transforming sorrow into song. What sound does your sorrow make? What’s the music of it?