Pussy Willows in the Smokies

Well, the time has come, at last, it seems, but really it has happened right on time, as God always is.  The pussy willows have pushed their fuzzy heads out from their buds and are offering us a view of their own unique beauty. The daffodils are now blooming profusely along the roadside, and our forsythia hedge is just beginning to show hints of  its golden glow. The photo above I took today, right in my own backyard in Western North Carolina!

I've recently downloaded a song called "Bird Song," that I first heard performed by the Wailin' Jennys, but since they have not recorded it, that I know of, I got a great rendition of it sung by Heather Masse, who wrote the music, and along with Nicky Mehta also wrote the lyrics. Both are former members of the Wailin' Jennys, and this whole album, "Bird Song," is well worth listening to, or even buying.  She's a brand new artist to me, and I am  glad to have discovered her for myself.  The words are  perfect for this time of year (it has a beautiful melody, too - download it for yourself, and see!), and are as follows:

"I hear a bird chirping, up in the sky;
I'd like to be free like that, spread my wings so high.

I see the river flowing, water running by;
I'd like to be that river, see what I might find.

I feel the wind a'blowing, slowly changing time;
I'd like to be that wind, I'd swirl and shape the sky.

I smell the flowers blooming, opening for spring;
I'd like to be those flowers, open to everything.

I feel the season change the leaves, the snow, and sun;
I'd like to be those seasons, made up and undone.

I taste the living earth, the seeds that grow within;
I'd like to be that earth, a home where life begins.

I see the moon a'rising, reaching into night;
I'd like to be that moon, a knowing, glowing light.

I know the silence as the world begins to wake;
I'd like to be that silence, as the morning breaks."


Expressions as eloquent as the lyrics above don't come along very often, and I find myself thinking of them, pondering them, and of course, singing them (in my head, or out loud) over and over again.  Lately, when asking to do a solo offertory at our church, or even being asked to sing one (I admit the former occurs more than the latter), I have been choosing songs that were not necessarily written for use as sacred songs.  However, since I invariably listen to music with my "God's Voice" listening ears, I find that Voice in many different types of songs.  I even quite often find it, and sometimes unexpectedly, in reading novels you would never normally think of as "Christian literature," (which sometimes, to me, can be an oxymoron).  God can and does speak through so many people, even those perhaps completely unaware of it, if you attune your ears and heart and mind to hearing God speak to you.  Popular novels and best sellers, while on the surface might seem  merely vulgar or profane, are often some of God's best vehicles, because they give the "open-to-it" reader the opportunity, if nothing else, to learn and understand what many people are thinking, and the chance to meet and speak to some people exactly where they are on their life's journey.  Connecting with people on my own level (not meaning high or low, simply mine at the moment), is not nearly as fulfilling or meaningful to me as connecting with someone who is at a different point in their lives.  It can be  revealing and eye-opening, and I thank God each time such gifts come my way.

Two of the songs I chose to sing over the last few months have been those kind of  "God's Voice" songs.  The first one was "Feels Like Home," by Randy Newman (one of my favorite songwriters), and most popularly recorded by Bonnie Raitt.  I saw it as a reflection on the Church as home, and before singing, I recited as an introduction, the words to the last verse of Sir Isaac Watts' hymn based on the 23rd Psalm:  "The sure provisions of my God, attend me all my days.  Oh may Thy House be my abode, and all my work be praise.  There would I find a settled rest, while others go and come:  no more a stranger, nor a guest, but like a child at home."  As God often does, even without our knowledge, He fitted the song in perfectly with the theme of that morning's worship experience, and I was so grateful to be a part of it.  The other song I sang recently was on the first Sunday of March.  Our congregation, as many United Methodist churches, celebrates the Eucharist on the first Sunday of each month, as well as on other special days of the Church Year.  A song I had heard years ago by another great multitalented musical artist, the songwriter/instrumentalist/singer John McCutcheon, sounded to me as though it had been written for Communion.  The song is called "Calling All The Children Home." It begins with a chant like a mother would sing as she calls her children to come in from playing outdoors all day - to come home for dinner.  "Home to the table with the big black pot, everybody's got enough, though we ain't got a lot.  No one is forgotten, no one is alone when she's calling all the children home."  The songs ends with with the following:  "Home to the table, home to the feast, where the last are the first and the greatest are the least.  Where the rich will envy what the poor have got, everybody's got enough, though we ain't got a lot.  No one is forgotten, no one is alone...from the shacks of Soweto to the ice of Nome, from Baghdad City to the streets of Rome, we're calling all the children home."  It closes with the chanting again, as it began.  It would be difficult to find a more appropriate Communion song than this one, which was probably intended to be secular.

I'm thinking maybe this Spring, of asking to sing "Bird Song" during worship.  It fits perfectly into the appreciation of God's creation, and imagines a Godly Gift of being present and within each season as God creates them anew each and every year; indeed each and every day.  God is Good.  All life springs from the heart, hand, and mind of God, and I stand amazed at the marvels God has allowed us to enjoy with Her.

My husband and I are expecting our first grandchild late this summer.  (I know, I know! Our son and daughter-in-love are expecting their first child, too!  And how many of you are sick of hearing about it, ad nauseum?  Our "kids" think we are nuts!)  They sent us the first sonogram photo of our grandchild taken very early in the pregnancy.  The awesome thing about the photo is that it shows this beautiful girl/boy already perfectly formed, though only the size of a peanut!  How does it happen?  I will never cease to be amazed at the whole process of creation.  How does a child - or any living thing - form, seemingly from nothing, and appearing to take nothing from where it begins, grow, and keep growing, into someone/something unique and splendid?  I will never be able to comprehend those mysteries this side of heaven, and even on the other side, I wonder if I will be able to grasp the enormity of it all.  I still contend that if it had been up to me to invent the wheel, we wouldn't have one!  I come from a line of astounded, mystified, God-awing people.  I remember distinctly watching my mother as we all watched the moon landing the summer of '69.  She shook her head in wonder, and said, "I just don't believe this!  How can I stand here and watch this amazing feat on television?  I mean, I still don't even understand how television works - or the radio, for that matter - how can I be expected to grasp any of what is happening right now before my very eyes?"  She knew of course God's hand in all of it, but she was always mystified and in awe of the how. Me too. "I taste the living earth, the seeds that grow within; I'd like to be that earth, a home where life begins."

Gentle reader:
I wish you, and all, enough...

(See  When is Enough Enough? )

Haven't We Always Been in Love?

I like to write songs - both music and lyrics; as a matter of fact, it is very difficult for me to write a melody for someone else's lyrics; and although the reverse is not as difficult for me, it still is not something that I enjoy as much as marrying my own lyrics with an original melody. I have had varying degrees of success in my endeavors. What I have found of late is that the songs I wrote 20 or 30 years ago are really quite dated in sound and style; although with a tweak or two of the arrangements, they could be updated somewhat. What interests me about this is how some music or lyrics, some novels or poetry...really: how any artistic form can be called timeless. I am not disputing the idea that some art is timeless. God knows I have sung, heard, read, seen, or witnessed it, and never fail to marvel at it. But what is the quality that makes a piece of art timeless...how does something earn that moniker? It is a true conundrum for me. I have a real revulsion on hearing things labeled as "instant classics," or a "new novel (or whatever) for the ages." It's not that the particular work might not turn out to be just that, but isn't there some sort of unbiased standard by which something can be called ageless or timeless? I mean, really, shouldn't something hang around in the universal artistic consciousness for more than a couple of "ages" before it can be called ageless, or certainly be known for its unique or exquisite qualities for more than a micro-second or two (in history's eyes anyway) to be called "timeless?" (Let's face it: "standing the test of time" beats "instant classic" any day!)

Rest assured, I have never written anything that could ever be called timeless, and regardless of how true that is in my case, I'm pretty certain that most artists feel the same way. Upon completion of any project, I've never known any creator or artist who has looked at his or her finished work and said, "Now that's perfect!" or "That's timeless!" or "This is one for the ages." or "I can die happy now, knowing that my legacy to the art world is secure for perpetuity." Something, I believe, is in the heart and soul of great artists that resists satisfaction. It's something that says, "No, that isn't enough...I can do better, I can do more, this just isn't it." I wonder: is that attitude a requirement for greatness? Well let me tell you right here and now - if that's the only requirement, then I am the greatest artist who has ever lived! It's not that I don't appreciate any of my work, or do not see in it the seeds of competence, or even fail to be somewhat proud of what I have accomplished. It is, however, a complete lack of any sense of that ageless or timeless quality, and that is something I long to produce. Now, some may argue that the artist is not in a position to make that judgment regarding his or her own work. I disagree somewhat. I believe that the maker, the creator is sometimes the ONLY one who knows whether that quality exists or not, because the artist knows what concept was in her or his mind, heart and soul - what was the intention of the creator. I also (paradoxically) believe that true objectivity, if that is possible, can be an artist's best friend, but objectivity is often not within one's own power insofar as rating one's own work. The artist can know and feel what is good even if not judged by others to be so, and is often found by succeeding generations that s/he was right. Making the "timeless" or "ageless" judgment throughout time, however, is out of the artist's hands, and sometimes those judgments change back and forth over the course of history.  (Now THAT was a convoluted argument...wonder if anyone understands what I am trying to say?  Do I?)

It's probably a good time to capitalize that "c" on creator, and move on to a discussion of the "Creator," the only true Artist, because God created something, rather all things, out of nothing, and could then gaze upon it and call it "Good." (My smart-aleck response to that is "yeah, sure but what did God have to compare it to?") That includes humanity. As created, we are good...not that we don't often go out of our way to negate that, but nevertheless, being a creation of The Creator, God was moved to call us "good." So: while I am certainly not in a position to contradict God, (although I have always considered myself sort of an advisor to the Almighty), it is very difficult for me to call myself, or any of my "product" good. I don't believe that my ability or inability to assess my work as good is a matter of conceit or something missing in my nature. Oh, no! It's all my parents' fault! OK, here's the "reasoning" that brought me to this conclusion about my own sense of inferiority. When I was a child, my parents thought I was wonderful, and that anything I did or produced (with a few minor exceptions) was perfect! They would tell me, before a test or competition, or some similar circumstance, that all I had to do was the best I could, and that would be perfect. Here's the kicker: as I grew into my teen years and beyond, it gradually occurred to me that so much of what I did was obviously not perfect (by my own or anyone's standards; so it must be because I did not do my best. So from that point on, nothing I do is good enough. Isn't it interesting how I lay the responsibility of this conclusion on my parents (may they rest in peace!)? They did nothing but encourage me in the best way they knew how; always tried to steer me in the right direction while at the same time allowing me some time at the wheel of my life. Basically, they did as well as could ever be expected of any parents, and certainly better than most. It dawned on me, fairly recently, that the feelings of inadequacy as an artist are entirely my own creation (probably one of the only things I feel I'm really good at!), and serve as a rather sad excuse for mediocrity. Becoming a parent started me thinking in the personal responsibility direction; dealing with my own children and their own feelings of self-worth. While I can encourage, praise, set a good example, and gently correct or guide, it is not in my power to completely form their self-esteem. While the ground can be tilled by others, self-esteem can only be reaped by the self. So, in terms of my own sense of self-worth, it's time to let my parents off the hook, where I have frequently left them dangling. It is time to say it as unselfconsciously as it is in my power to do, that some of the songs I write are OK. Some of them are actually good. So you're wondering why I have spent the last million words talking about self-worth and auto-judgment when the title of this piece is "Haven't We Always Been in Love?"

Today is Valentine's Day, not a particularly favorite day of mine, but it is a nice opportunity to tell the ones you love how much they mean to you (although every day is an opportunity for that). Shortly, or within two or three years after my husband and I married, I was inspired to write a song dedicated to him, but sung as a duet - we first became friends by singing together; we've done it ever since. The song bears this article's title, and while it begins by speaking of our mutual life and love together, it transforms to a statement that includes our Creator - "Haven't we always been in love with You... lived our lives for You... haven't You always had a dream for us to share; haven't we always lifted our hearts as one to You in prayer?" We were supposed to sing that together today at a Marriage Covenant Renewal Service at our church. We still love singing together, and we both looked forward to the opportunity to sing of our love for one another and for God in the company of some of our church family - 80 couples in all, plus some members of their families. It would make for a wonderful, joyful and reflective time. The flu had different ideas for my husband, and he was out for the count. We made the decision for me to sing, and renew our vows (!) as a solo act. I had written another wedding/marriage song called "Wedding Doxology" (not a duet) for friends some years ago (actually, I've written three wedding songs). So I sang that. I was complimented, and I graciously gave my thanks for the comments. No, I can't say it was perfect, but I did my best at the moment, under the circumstances, and that is good enough.

Oh, and through the marvels of modern technology, during the repetition of vows, I called Ashley on my cell phone. He repeated them to me, and I to him, the words we first said over 34 years ago. As our pastor spoke an individual blessing over each couple at the altar, he took the phone from me and spoke into it, while laying his other hand on me: "What God has created in your marriage, let no one tear apart." Certainly the flu can't. So I close this epic blog with these words: "It's good; well, good enough, and I am still in love. Haven't I always been in love?