Music
For breath vibrating reed,
For bow across strings,
For pursed lips vibrating in metals,
I am thankful.
For mallets beating on stretched skins,
For the touch of fingers on keys,
And for the uplifting of voices,
I am grateful.
For the mathematical purity of vibrations
Giving rich harmonic overtones,
For sounds played in resonance with each other
Forming melody and chords
Creating beautiful music
I am thankful.
Friday, December 03, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
White Oak Sinks: Goals v Experiencing
Conrad Anker said that if he makes three attempts to summit a mountain and is unsuccessful, then it is not meant to be, and he moves on. Elise and I made three attempts to find the back way out of White Oak sinks. Each time we ended in a pathless tangle. The third time we were sure we were near the trail junction. We could see the blue sky of the ridge line, but we couldn’t find the way to get there. And I became nervous. I know people with much better mountain skills than me have gotten disoriented in the turns and twists of mountains. I didn’t want to be the subject of a rescue party. So, again we descended.
Elise and I met for the first time yesterday in the parking lot of El Jimador. A mutual friend had enlisted us to colead the SMHC outing to White Oak Sinks next April. It is a delightful area, but I had not been there in many years. Elise had been there just once, so we, with good reason, felt the need for a scouting hike. A hike is multifaceted. It is about the destination, the goal. It is about being in the woods, experiencing. The hike is visual, our eyes rest on trees, evergreen, bare, and some with a few leaves clinging. We walk along the pretty creek, and admire the rolling slopes and sink holes. The hike is auditory. We listen to the rippling creek, fluttering air, bird song, and squirrels dancing across the leaves. The hike is feeling the sensual kiss of the mountain air. It is about the physical act of walking, mile after mile, laboring uphill, balancing downhill.
Today it is also about talking, learning about each other, having time to explore different topics as we make our way along the trail. We kept coming back to one thought. Goals can detract from experiencing. Many people walk each hike as a step in the goal of coloring in the whole trail map---walking every trail in the park. I had long ago realized this wasn’t for me, and Elise has recently realized it is not for her either. We want to enjoy each hike for itself. If we want to come back to the same trail five, ten times, we don’t want to worry that we are “wasting time!!”
Conrad Anker, the big mountain climber, where one would think the goal of summiting is everything, has also found that sometimes experiencing the joy of the day IS the goal. Perhaps we will return later to find that pesky back trail out of the sinks, but today was a fine day. A good hike in a beautiful place with a new friend, nothing could be better.
Conrad Anker said that if he makes three attempts to summit a mountain and is unsuccessful, then it is not meant to be, and he moves on. Elise and I made three attempts to find the back way out of White Oak sinks. Each time we ended in a pathless tangle. The third time we were sure we were near the trail junction. We could see the blue sky of the ridge line, but we couldn’t find the way to get there. And I became nervous. I know people with much better mountain skills than me have gotten disoriented in the turns and twists of mountains. I didn’t want to be the subject of a rescue party. So, again we descended.
Elise and I met for the first time yesterday in the parking lot of El Jimador. A mutual friend had enlisted us to colead the SMHC outing to White Oak Sinks next April. It is a delightful area, but I had not been there in many years. Elise had been there just once, so we, with good reason, felt the need for a scouting hike. A hike is multifaceted. It is about the destination, the goal. It is about being in the woods, experiencing. The hike is visual, our eyes rest on trees, evergreen, bare, and some with a few leaves clinging. We walk along the pretty creek, and admire the rolling slopes and sink holes. The hike is auditory. We listen to the rippling creek, fluttering air, bird song, and squirrels dancing across the leaves. The hike is feeling the sensual kiss of the mountain air. It is about the physical act of walking, mile after mile, laboring uphill, balancing downhill.
Today it is also about talking, learning about each other, having time to explore different topics as we make our way along the trail. We kept coming back to one thought. Goals can detract from experiencing. Many people walk each hike as a step in the goal of coloring in the whole trail map---walking every trail in the park. I had long ago realized this wasn’t for me, and Elise has recently realized it is not for her either. We want to enjoy each hike for itself. If we want to come back to the same trail five, ten times, we don’t want to worry that we are “wasting time!!”
Conrad Anker, the big mountain climber, where one would think the goal of summiting is everything, has also found that sometimes experiencing the joy of the day IS the goal. Perhaps we will return later to find that pesky back trail out of the sinks, but today was a fine day. A good hike in a beautiful place with a new friend, nothing could be better.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
There was a time when the humans on the earth were smaller in number, and made a lighter footprint on the earth. One small band of humans had carved a home for themselves, and learned to grow food in cleared fields, and keep some animals to supplement their hunting and the gathering of wild plants. Seasons passed into generations, and the people lived as they always had. Religion was a dance, celebrated with body, mind and soul.
************
The days were getting longer, sunrise and sunset crept northward on the horizon toward the stones marking the furthest points the sun would reach. The fields were planted and green with new growth. Excitement stirred in the community, it was time to prepare for the midsummer's night festival for the Goddess.
The gathering ground in the middle of the village was swept clean. Sacred stones were retrieved from the pile in which they they were stored between festivals. Deirdre, the priestess, directed the young boys as they laid the stones out in a large spiral, working out from a sacred inner circle. Wood was brought for the fires, the small Goddess fire in the center, and the two large fires to mark the sunrise and sunset points at the outer edge of the spiral.
Every man in the village, from the youngest, who had just done their manhood ceremonies at winter solstice, to the wizened, shriveled old grandfathers who still carried the hope and desire to honor the Goddess, carefully prepared their dancing masks. Feathers and fur, previously collected and stored, were brought out and carefully attached. Crushed rocks were mixed with oils to paint vivid colors. Horns and tusks saved from slaughtered animals were attached, so that when the mask was placed on his head, each man would become the Horned God.
The women gathered flowers and leaves to weave into garlands, to adorn their hair, waists, arms thighs. Deirdre set several young girls to grind ochre to make the red paste for painting Goddess symbols on bodies.
As the heat of the day waned, a supper of bread, vegetables, fruits and beer was served. Everyone would need nourishment for the long night of singing, dancing and lovemaking, but wouldn't want to be weighed down by a heavy feast. The little children were put to bed, with some of the older children charged with watching them. Others of the older children would be allowed to stay up late, taking turns playing the drums and rattles and joining in on the songs and chants.
The solstice stone glowed orange as the setting sun passed over it, and the sunset and sunrise fires were lit, As the drums started a slow throbbing, all the people gathered at the edge of the spiral, forming a large circle. Each man proudly wore his horned mask, and the women were beautiful in their flowers. The youngest boys clumped together in a shy, nervous bunch, but the mature men stepped between them, dividing them. "No Goddess will step out of the spiral if she sees all you babies waiting for her," teased Broka, the village smith, "she has to have some hope that a REAL man will be stepping up to worship her."
Priestess Deirdre walked first to the sunrise fire, then to the sunset fire, pulling some burning twigs from each. She approached the entrance of the spiral, and stopped. The drums silenced. All the people breathed as one, as Deirdre stood with head bowed in silent prayer, asking the Goddess' favor on the ceremony. Deirdre raised her head, raised her arms holding the tiny fires, and stepped into the spiral, turning in slow circles. The gibbous moon cast silver on her long unbound hair woven with flowers, her heavy breasts, belly softly rounded from childbirth, and wide womanly hips, as she circled round and round, slowly making her way deeper into the spiral. Drums began again, softly, as Deirdre sang:
I am Mother
Sing my praises
Worship me with body and soul
From my womb
Pours blood and water
Giving life to all the land
Grain and fruit grow
From my blessing
New life thrives at my command
I am Mother
Sing my praises
Worship me with body and soul
Celebrate
the gift I give you
Light the fires of life again
As Deirdre finished the last verse, the four oldest women of the village entered the spiral and started the song again. More drums picked up the beat, and all the people in the circle joined in the song, slowly stepping counterclockwise around the spiral edge, clapping hands in rhythym with the song. Next, five women of the village who were heany with pregnancy stepped forward and entered the spiral. These were the blessed of the Mother.
When Deirdre, the crones, and the pregnant women reached the inner circle, she knelt down and lit the Goddess fire. The women first attended her, rubbing the ochre over her body, painting a spiral on each breast, and painting the downward pointing triangle on her pubis. Then Deirdre and the crones painted the Goddess symbols on the pregnant women's breast and pubis, and large spirals on the mounds of their bellies.
Again the drumming stopped, as did the singing and dancing. All was silent except for the soft crackling of the fires. Again, the whole community breathed with one breath. Deirdre lept over the fire and became the Goddess. The celebration had begun.
The dancers continued the slow cicle around the perimeter. As a woman would approach the entrance to the spiral, if she were ready, she would leave the circle of dancers and start to spiral inward. Slowly turning as she spiraled in, singing and clapping hands. some of the women brought with them gifts of food and drink for the women in the Goddess circle. Deirdre stayed in the circle to welcome some of the arriving women. She helped the crones and pregnant women rub on the ochre and embraced each woman as she jumped across the fire, becoming the Goddess. Soon though, the circle was filling, and it was time to spiral back out, Deirdre leading the women, singing, dancing ,skipping and leaping, spiraling out and out.
The men and a few of the women who had not yet started to spiral in continued the slow dance around the perimeter, chanting and singing Goddess songs. As Deirdre rounded the outermost ring of the spiral, she admired all the circling masked Gods. She timed her exit from the spiral so that a beautifully crafted mask carried on a well muscled chest and abdomen with long sinewy arms and legs and approached the exit. Deirdre was pretty sure she knew who's face was under that mask, and he was a young man who could use some expert teaching on how to best honor the Goddess. She stepped out of the spiral and held out her hand to the young Horned God. He took her hand in both of his, knelt before her, and kissed her hand. She signaled him to rise, and holding his hand led him out of the light into the moonswept darkness of the field.
************
The days were getting longer, sunrise and sunset crept northward on the horizon toward the stones marking the furthest points the sun would reach. The fields were planted and green with new growth. Excitement stirred in the community, it was time to prepare for the midsummer's night festival for the Goddess.
The gathering ground in the middle of the village was swept clean. Sacred stones were retrieved from the pile in which they they were stored between festivals. Deirdre, the priestess, directed the young boys as they laid the stones out in a large spiral, working out from a sacred inner circle. Wood was brought for the fires, the small Goddess fire in the center, and the two large fires to mark the sunrise and sunset points at the outer edge of the spiral.
Every man in the village, from the youngest, who had just done their manhood ceremonies at winter solstice, to the wizened, shriveled old grandfathers who still carried the hope and desire to honor the Goddess, carefully prepared their dancing masks. Feathers and fur, previously collected and stored, were brought out and carefully attached. Crushed rocks were mixed with oils to paint vivid colors. Horns and tusks saved from slaughtered animals were attached, so that when the mask was placed on his head, each man would become the Horned God.
The women gathered flowers and leaves to weave into garlands, to adorn their hair, waists, arms thighs. Deirdre set several young girls to grind ochre to make the red paste for painting Goddess symbols on bodies.
As the heat of the day waned, a supper of bread, vegetables, fruits and beer was served. Everyone would need nourishment for the long night of singing, dancing and lovemaking, but wouldn't want to be weighed down by a heavy feast. The little children were put to bed, with some of the older children charged with watching them. Others of the older children would be allowed to stay up late, taking turns playing the drums and rattles and joining in on the songs and chants.
The solstice stone glowed orange as the setting sun passed over it, and the sunset and sunrise fires were lit, As the drums started a slow throbbing, all the people gathered at the edge of the spiral, forming a large circle. Each man proudly wore his horned mask, and the women were beautiful in their flowers. The youngest boys clumped together in a shy, nervous bunch, but the mature men stepped between them, dividing them. "No Goddess will step out of the spiral if she sees all you babies waiting for her," teased Broka, the village smith, "she has to have some hope that a REAL man will be stepping up to worship her."
Priestess Deirdre walked first to the sunrise fire, then to the sunset fire, pulling some burning twigs from each. She approached the entrance of the spiral, and stopped. The drums silenced. All the people breathed as one, as Deirdre stood with head bowed in silent prayer, asking the Goddess' favor on the ceremony. Deirdre raised her head, raised her arms holding the tiny fires, and stepped into the spiral, turning in slow circles. The gibbous moon cast silver on her long unbound hair woven with flowers, her heavy breasts, belly softly rounded from childbirth, and wide womanly hips, as she circled round and round, slowly making her way deeper into the spiral. Drums began again, softly, as Deirdre sang:
I am Mother
Sing my praises
Worship me with body and soul
From my womb
Pours blood and water
Giving life to all the land
Grain and fruit grow
From my blessing
New life thrives at my command
I am Mother
Sing my praises
Worship me with body and soul
Celebrate
the gift I give you
Light the fires of life again
As Deirdre finished the last verse, the four oldest women of the village entered the spiral and started the song again. More drums picked up the beat, and all the people in the circle joined in the song, slowly stepping counterclockwise around the spiral edge, clapping hands in rhythym with the song. Next, five women of the village who were heany with pregnancy stepped forward and entered the spiral. These were the blessed of the Mother.
When Deirdre, the crones, and the pregnant women reached the inner circle, she knelt down and lit the Goddess fire. The women first attended her, rubbing the ochre over her body, painting a spiral on each breast, and painting the downward pointing triangle on her pubis. Then Deirdre and the crones painted the Goddess symbols on the pregnant women's breast and pubis, and large spirals on the mounds of their bellies.
Again the drumming stopped, as did the singing and dancing. All was silent except for the soft crackling of the fires. Again, the whole community breathed with one breath. Deirdre lept over the fire and became the Goddess. The celebration had begun.
The dancers continued the slow cicle around the perimeter. As a woman would approach the entrance to the spiral, if she were ready, she would leave the circle of dancers and start to spiral inward. Slowly turning as she spiraled in, singing and clapping hands. some of the women brought with them gifts of food and drink for the women in the Goddess circle. Deirdre stayed in the circle to welcome some of the arriving women. She helped the crones and pregnant women rub on the ochre and embraced each woman as she jumped across the fire, becoming the Goddess. Soon though, the circle was filling, and it was time to spiral back out, Deirdre leading the women, singing, dancing ,skipping and leaping, spiraling out and out.
The men and a few of the women who had not yet started to spiral in continued the slow dance around the perimeter, chanting and singing Goddess songs. As Deirdre rounded the outermost ring of the spiral, she admired all the circling masked Gods. She timed her exit from the spiral so that a beautifully crafted mask carried on a well muscled chest and abdomen with long sinewy arms and legs and approached the exit. Deirdre was pretty sure she knew who's face was under that mask, and he was a young man who could use some expert teaching on how to best honor the Goddess. She stepped out of the spiral and held out her hand to the young Horned God. He took her hand in both of his, knelt before her, and kissed her hand. She signaled him to rise, and holding his hand led him out of the light into the moonswept darkness of the field.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Autumn Afternoon in the forest
The oak forest sits, still in the quiet fall afternoon,
A canopy of yellow brown leaves.
Suddenly, the dull fall leaves burst into a new dimension.
As the setting sun dips to an acute angle,
The treetops catch warm golden rays.
Light touches the leaves and gives them life.
Each leaf becomes radiant, glorious,
As if encrusted in diamonds.
The entire forest is transcendent.
It shines and dances
In the gentle touch of the setting sun.
reworking--from original, Nov 2008.
The oak forest sits, still in the quiet fall afternoon,
A canopy of yellow brown leaves.
Suddenly, the dull fall leaves burst into a new dimension.
As the setting sun dips to an acute angle,
The treetops catch warm golden rays.
Light touches the leaves and gives them life.
Each leaf becomes radiant, glorious,
As if encrusted in diamonds.
The entire forest is transcendent.
It shines and dances
In the gentle touch of the setting sun.
reworking--from original, Nov 2008.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Wynton Marsalis: Blues Symphony
Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, January 14, 2010
At Martin Luther King Auditorium, Morehouse College
Symphonic Music. Total immersion in glorious sound.
Dressing up. Sitting between mother and daughter
Flanked by father and son in law. Surrounded by hundreds.
Every seat filled. Every heart rapt. Everyone is family.
Beautiful, spare hall. Organ pipes in geometric harmony.
Rich rich sound filling the hall, filling the hearts.
Spano, with black shirt rolling and flowing
As he dances his direction.
Rhythms of America.
Bluesy horns, syncopation.
Washboards and whistles.
Hand claps and foot stomps
Written in the score.
New Orleans and New York.
Oh, the clarinet--wailing, crying.
Soul lifts as music moves from sorrow to joy.
Faces light up. Bodies want to dance.
The musicians having FUN with the music.
Celebrating humanity. Celebrating the uplifting
from mundane to sublime through
Glorious music.
Atlanta Symphony Orchestra, January 14, 2010
At Martin Luther King Auditorium, Morehouse College
Symphonic Music. Total immersion in glorious sound.
Dressing up. Sitting between mother and daughter
Flanked by father and son in law. Surrounded by hundreds.
Every seat filled. Every heart rapt. Everyone is family.
Beautiful, spare hall. Organ pipes in geometric harmony.
Rich rich sound filling the hall, filling the hearts.
Spano, with black shirt rolling and flowing
As he dances his direction.
Rhythms of America.
Bluesy horns, syncopation.
Washboards and whistles.
Hand claps and foot stomps
Written in the score.
New Orleans and New York.
Oh, the clarinet--wailing, crying.
Soul lifts as music moves from sorrow to joy.
Faces light up. Bodies want to dance.
The musicians having FUN with the music.
Celebrating humanity. Celebrating the uplifting
from mundane to sublime through
Glorious music.
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