When you stand on a big rock in a forest, there's only one sound you can hear.

That is the sound of a hundred million beings endowed with the gift of life, worshipping their creator by fulfilling their purpose. Trees don't sin. The wind doesn't lie.

Stand on a big rock surrounded by sinlessness and pure unadulterated worship. Tell me you can't hear the voice of God in that place.

When it's cold like this I can't just go out anytime I want, and if I do, I certainly can't hear the rustling of the leaves. I can't feel the sun on my shoulders and rest my head on the ground, smell the grass. I never used to understand what the Bible talks about when it talks about creation bearing witness to God, but I do now. I could never really hear God until I scampered through a bush or across a field or up a tree.

Winter feels like a dark cold room. It's made of concrete, it's cold and gray, and I can't hear anything.

If I was in one of Tolkien's books, I'd have been an elf. Or a hobbit. I'm short like a hobbit but devastatingly beautiful like Orlando Bloom.
So it's hard to say.