The world is divided into people who own wind chimes, and the rest of us.
Now I'm crossing over.
I say this because I was still in my Sedona-induced haze when I came home, and I found a new appreciation for a small set of wind chimes that a reader was kind enough to give me.
Yes, readers give me presents. How great is that?
But no, you don't have to. If you're reading this column, that's present enough. If you're reading one of my books, I may come over and give you a hug. And if you bought the book, I'll force my tongue down your throat.
But in a good way.
Anyway, in my New Age middle-age, I have developed an appreciation for crystals, yoga, and, yes, wind chimes.
I hung the small set in my backyard and forgot about them. I never really noticed the sound they made, though I work in the room nearest them. The only sounds I heard were the tapping of my keyboard, the TV in the background, and the snoring of five dogs.
In other words, music.
You're my kind of person if the sound track of your life includes dog farts.
But the other day, the dogs were outside, the TV was off, and, for a minute, I stopped working. The window was open, and the sweet sounds of the wind chimes wafted through the screen, like a twinkly breeze.
I know. I've lost my damn mind. Can dream catchers be far behind?
I started really appreciating the sound of the chimes, then waiting for the next breeze so I could hear them chime again.
This would not be a path to career success.
Bottom line, I fell in love with wind chimes.
But in typical Type A fashion, as much as I liked the wind chimes in my backyard, I started to think I needed a pair of wind chimes for the front yard. And maybe also for the side yard. And maybe outside my bedroom window. Because if some is good, more is better, and there is no such thing as excess when it comes to woo-woo.
Or junk you can hang on a tree.
Anyway, I found myself online looking up wind chimes. It's not exactly spiritual to buy wind chimes from Amazon, but it offers several hundred nice ones, and then I found a bunch of wind-chime stores online that had four basic types, namely Bamboo, Capiz, "Fun," and Traditional.
I clicked through to Traditional because I don't know what Capiz is, and I'm not "fun."
And in Traditional, they actually let you listen to the chimes.
Bring your own wind.
I got plenty.
So do my dogs.
To stay on point, to hear the chimes, all you do is click the button that says LISTEN TO ME.
What woman doesn't want a button like that?
Or one that says, DO WHAT I SAY WHEN I SAY IT.
Or PASS THE CHOCOLATE CAKE.
But I digress.
When you click the button, the wind chimes play actual songs.
Who knew that wind chimes played anything but random notes?
What a country.
As for what the chimes played, we're not talking "Mary Had a Little Lamb." For example, there's an Amazing Grace chime that plays "Amazing Grace."
And a Spanish Garden chime that, according to the website, plays the "opening minor chord of the adagio movement from the Concerto de Aranjuez by Joaquín Rodrigo, one of the most significant Spanish composers of the 20th century."
So I spent an hour listening to all the chimes and trying to pick one, which was like choosing a ringtone for your tree.
They were all so different, like Bells of Paradise (tinkly), Chakra Chime (metaphysical), Fantasy Fairy (magical), and Hummingbird (caffeinated). There were even chimes from different places, like Ireland, Kyoto, Jerusalem, and Patagonia, which I think is near Camden.
But pretty soon all of the chimes started sounding like one another, and I couldn't remember which chime sounded like what, and my nerves started to fray. I didn't know which song, spirit animal, religion, or nationality I wanted my wind chimes to be.
Or maybe that should be up to the wind chimes themselves.
Who am I to decide?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind chimes.
Look for Lisa and Francesca's new humor collection "I've Got Sand in All the Wrong Places," and Lisa's new domestic thriller, "One Perfect Lie," Also, look for Lisa's new Rosato & DiNunzio novel, "Damaged," coming Aug. 15. firstname.lastname@example.org.