We think ventures into the woods are on our own accord; but in reality, we are propelled deeper down forest paths moving in sync with the rhythms of the earth urging everyone to listen to the call of the wild. Our awakening senses hear the animals rustling dry leaves and the melodious music of birds. We hear the force of a mountain stream splashing over rocks and tumbling onward into undiscovered places. The wind ripples the small lake and washes it ashore in waves mirroring distant ocean tides.
At first blinded by nature’s splendor, we stumble forward until out of breath, we stop. In that moment, we become connected in this place - connected to who we are, who we long to be and who we always were. And we realize that more than what we see and hear the echoes of what is left behind is no longer with us. We become attuned to what is not heard. The noise of people is vanquished -traffic racing ahead, sirens blasting in the distance. We don’t hear the sounds of stress in rapid heartbeats and panicked breathing.
In the deep stillness of the woods, we feel the harmony of nature carving its existence from the strengths of the past and adapting to each day. We are brought here to listen first to ourselves. Our voices lost among the noise of others and in the obstacles of the day. Our thoughts shattered by remnants of the past. We are brought to this place so our hearts can again beat in time with the ancient patterns of the earth. So we can build upon the past, dream anew and move forward with abandonment to our own undiscovered places.
Rested, with eyes and spirit again open, our lives are illuminated against the dark cover of the green canopy like the last summer flowers radiantly blooming and casting beauty beyond the shadows.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Fairy Tales at the Symphony
The room darkened as strains of music slowly drifted into corners of empty silence. Rich velvet reds blurred with white marble and gleaming wood as the symphony players, sitting under highly polished chrome fixtures holding their highly polished instruments, became the only view. The crowd shuffled in their seats and an occasional cough echoed throughout the large hall. Applause greeted the conductor as he strode onto his platform and with a sweeping gesture, he waved his magic wand and music from the ages sprang to life.
For a few moments, I sat mesmerized. Then I noticed a couple sitting in the choir seats overlooking the musicians. They appeared to breathe as one and occupy the same chair. Their happy glow left their dewy skin and landed on everyone around them. Soon the music formed a backdrop for the story I wove about their love. But, was it real? And what do any of us know about anyone? Even walking 1000 miles in the shoes of another doesn’t allow entry into private thoughts or let us know why the heart beats to certain arrangements.
I recalled another couple, sitting near these same seats, with two teenagers attending the symphony last Fall. The mother was dressed in glitter and the sparkles cast the only light on her skin. Her husband sat one seat over and the teenagers, hunched down in two other seats, sat even further down the row. She held her head high during the performance but nearing intermission; she appeared to rest heavily from the weight of many burdens. Yet, after the intermission, they sat together, four in a row, looking like the perfect family. Did they make up after an argument or did they simply take advantage of more comfortable space for a short while?
I wondered who was the happiest. Which couple had the real love that would last a lifetime? Did it belong to the ones sitting so closely together or did it belong to the ones sitting apart? Are outward signs of love evidence of deep love? Will it last longer than the love that remains hidden unveiled only to the intended? And then I wondered why I was wondering about others. I returned my attention to the beautiful music knowing that it was enough that I was happy and could see love in everyone.
For a few moments, I sat mesmerized. Then I noticed a couple sitting in the choir seats overlooking the musicians. They appeared to breathe as one and occupy the same chair. Their happy glow left their dewy skin and landed on everyone around them. Soon the music formed a backdrop for the story I wove about their love. But, was it real? And what do any of us know about anyone? Even walking 1000 miles in the shoes of another doesn’t allow entry into private thoughts or let us know why the heart beats to certain arrangements.
I recalled another couple, sitting near these same seats, with two teenagers attending the symphony last Fall. The mother was dressed in glitter and the sparkles cast the only light on her skin. Her husband sat one seat over and the teenagers, hunched down in two other seats, sat even further down the row. She held her head high during the performance but nearing intermission; she appeared to rest heavily from the weight of many burdens. Yet, after the intermission, they sat together, four in a row, looking like the perfect family. Did they make up after an argument or did they simply take advantage of more comfortable space for a short while?
I wondered who was the happiest. Which couple had the real love that would last a lifetime? Did it belong to the ones sitting so closely together or did it belong to the ones sitting apart? Are outward signs of love evidence of deep love? Will it last longer than the love that remains hidden unveiled only to the intended? And then I wondered why I was wondering about others. I returned my attention to the beautiful music knowing that it was enough that I was happy and could see love in everyone.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Real Piano Lesson
Lately, it feels like I’ve spent so much time worrying about the future and remembering the past that I have forgotten how to live in the present. The events and the beauty of each day rush beyond me and leave me behind on a path on which I have no footprints.
And so I sit to take stock and create change. I sit on a hard piano bench staring at my old nemesis. As a small child, I carved my name in the wood grain but that did not make me a musician. Taking lessons for more years than my sister made me no better and no amount of lessons would make either of us better than my gifted and talented mother. I hear the cadence of their melodies and close my eyes.
The sun is streaming through the windows and I feel the warmth penetrating deep into my heart and hands. A slight morning breeze has been gently pushing aside the clouds exposing a brilliant blue sky. The branches rustle outside as a startled bird flies out of the still blooming pink crepe myrtle. Neighbors are talking and the sound of children’s laughter punctuates their murmured conversations. From the kitchen, water gurgles in the copper fountain breaking the silence in the otherwise still house. I feel the heartbeat in my throat pulsating in time to harmonies now coursing through my blood.
Opening my eyes, I stretch my fingers onto the dusty ivory keys. For a moment, I stop to feel the smooth texture and lightly brush a chord. I don’t worry about not playing as well as my sister or mother, and I don’t worry about not being asked to play in some future Christmas Cantata of a church I don’t even attend. For the first time in over two years, I simply play and what I hear is the music of my life - the simple joy of living - resounding from each note.
And so I sit to take stock and create change. I sit on a hard piano bench staring at my old nemesis. As a small child, I carved my name in the wood grain but that did not make me a musician. Taking lessons for more years than my sister made me no better and no amount of lessons would make either of us better than my gifted and talented mother. I hear the cadence of their melodies and close my eyes.
The sun is streaming through the windows and I feel the warmth penetrating deep into my heart and hands. A slight morning breeze has been gently pushing aside the clouds exposing a brilliant blue sky. The branches rustle outside as a startled bird flies out of the still blooming pink crepe myrtle. Neighbors are talking and the sound of children’s laughter punctuates their murmured conversations. From the kitchen, water gurgles in the copper fountain breaking the silence in the otherwise still house. I feel the heartbeat in my throat pulsating in time to harmonies now coursing through my blood.
Opening my eyes, I stretch my fingers onto the dusty ivory keys. For a moment, I stop to feel the smooth texture and lightly brush a chord. I don’t worry about not playing as well as my sister or mother, and I don’t worry about not being asked to play in some future Christmas Cantata of a church I don’t even attend. For the first time in over two years, I simply play and what I hear is the music of my life - the simple joy of living - resounding from each note.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Family Reunion
Family reunions are as much a part of the South as fried food, football and faith. Food holds court and the head of the table is filled with a wide variety of fried chicken while the end is heavy laden with rich desserts made with creamy whole milk and real butter. Somewhere in the middle, variations of long cooked green beans, cheesy potato casseroles and sweet corn, all made with bacon grease or fat back, reign and compete for unspoken prizes as women gather sharing recipes and trade secrets.
Our family doesn’t hail from the cotillion south of party dresses and country clubs. We don’t gather on verandas sipping tea while holes are counted on the golf course. Our family hails from lands of rugged country where rocks jut forward defying crops to grow and where springs are hidden to the outsiders. It’s a land where the humidity sticks to you like old family names unchanged over countless decades. It’s a place where stories involve hunting and fishing holes. And we belong to a time where I can still feel the rush of the cold creek on hot summer days and smell the freshly cut hay.
I journey in among a clan of city cousins now accustomed to concrete pavements and skyscrapers. With calendars filled with appointments, obligations and stress, we arrive tired and looking to find what we can hardly remember against the backdrop of barns and pastures. The clan of country cousins arrives tired from hard outdoor living without regard to schedules that go beyond the seasons to plant and harvest.
Old family photographs line the tables and are thumb tacked to the walls of the old church attended by families past but ever present. We may come from different parts but we look alike -blue eyes that hold the promise of easier days and curly hair of blond or brown. Standing for obligatory pictures and posing again in an attempt to create more flattering ones, we tell tales that span the afternoon and generations past. Over the years, the stories have grown taller and our waists thicker but still we come back. We come back because we find that what we are looking for is in each other and our own connection to the past and the future is woven with the same DNA threads.
Country cousins and city cousins– we’re all the same. We fill the room with love and laughter. We share stories of birth and death and discuss both the hard and the good times. Our smiles are broad, the hugs are solid and teachers of the past still whisper in the air the southern mantra “God, Country, and Family.”
Our family doesn’t hail from the cotillion south of party dresses and country clubs. We don’t gather on verandas sipping tea while holes are counted on the golf course. Our family hails from lands of rugged country where rocks jut forward defying crops to grow and where springs are hidden to the outsiders. It’s a land where the humidity sticks to you like old family names unchanged over countless decades. It’s a place where stories involve hunting and fishing holes. And we belong to a time where I can still feel the rush of the cold creek on hot summer days and smell the freshly cut hay.
I journey in among a clan of city cousins now accustomed to concrete pavements and skyscrapers. With calendars filled with appointments, obligations and stress, we arrive tired and looking to find what we can hardly remember against the backdrop of barns and pastures. The clan of country cousins arrives tired from hard outdoor living without regard to schedules that go beyond the seasons to plant and harvest.
Old family photographs line the tables and are thumb tacked to the walls of the old church attended by families past but ever present. We may come from different parts but we look alike -blue eyes that hold the promise of easier days and curly hair of blond or brown. Standing for obligatory pictures and posing again in an attempt to create more flattering ones, we tell tales that span the afternoon and generations past. Over the years, the stories have grown taller and our waists thicker but still we come back. We come back because we find that what we are looking for is in each other and our own connection to the past and the future is woven with the same DNA threads.
Country cousins and city cousins– we’re all the same. We fill the room with love and laughter. We share stories of birth and death and discuss both the hard and the good times. Our smiles are broad, the hugs are solid and teachers of the past still whisper in the air the southern mantra “God, Country, and Family.”
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