Lullabye

Tonight, I sang a lullabye:

On the wings of a wind,
O’er the dark, roaring sea
Angels are coming
To watch over thee
Angels are coming to watch o’er thy sleep
So list’ to the wind
Coming over the deep.

The words were whispered, softly sung, to the cadence of the waves in the dark as I rocked back and forth. My baby boy wiggled and squirmed at first and then nestled down in my lap with his cheek on my stomach.

The smooth rhythm of the song, echoing the rise and fall of water, the rise and fall of my breath, the back and forth of the rocker, combined the rhythms of life to that of nature. I am a guardian of life; his breath is steady now, against my abdomen. I tell him of tradition (the rhythm of people passed down through generations) in the chorus my father sang to me.

Hear the wind blow, Love.
Hear the wind blow.
Hang your head over.
And hear the wind blow.

In the patterns of the day, the need for sleep following play, the preparation of food, the consistency of chores, the repetition of the seasons, the rise and fall of the tides, the going and coming of the sun lies the security—the continuity of nature, the continuation of life, the pattern of eternity. I am the guardian of his life, I tell him about eternity, in the rise and fall of my breath, in the cadence of my song as I rock him back and forth.