The other day we called a musician, a regular Lodge contributor, who lives in Los Angeles. As soon as she answered the phone, she asked, “Is that the sound of the river I hear?”
Unfortunately, the sound she was hearing was just car noise — we were driving down Interstate 10. Nevertheless, it was good to know that she imagined all of the work of the Lodge happening along the banks of the Frio, a place where time takes on a more natural rhythm. We want something of the sound of the Frio to be perceptible in us, regardless of where we happen to be.
Is it possible that the solitude, silence, and prayer of this place could echo in each of us?