The Cacophony of Morning

Summer mornings are always an adventure of awakening.  This morning, it began with the stealth of muted sound as one bird, then another and another, gave voice to the start of their day, whispered at first in to the fog of this day’s dawning (whether the fog actually mutes their cries or not, I cannot say, but it seems so).

In short order (apparently it only takes one or two to wake the whole crowd), thousands of voices of hundreds of different calls and cries filled the air, chased by the sounds of cars and trucks and log trucks and other hauling equipment passing by, hurrying from one place to another, filling the air with the noise of their impatience as they whiz by.

As quickly as they came, their noise fades back to the birds, quietened by their departures for parts unknown, til it be night again and they return to settle in, calling out their subdued good-nights.

And tomorrow it begins again.

I am always struck by the great band of the noises of the morning – so quickly upon me and so quickly passed by.  Some mornings, I let it all wash over me and pass back to my own rest.  Others, I bound out of bed, energized by the hustle and bustle outside my window.

Sundays are the best, when, after the lull, as the morning grows late, Glen walks his way to church, singing his baritone glories to God along the way.

I never tire of the serenade of the morning.  I just wish I knew the notes for the song of the log trucks – bass profundo with their reverb bouncing off the house and setting it to joining in the song.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to sing along with them.

Unexpected Beauty

It is 2001 and I am about to enter seminary.  For a last blast, my son and I travel to Italy, Greece and France.  In Pisa, we do the usual photo-op grab of the Leaning Tower and then wander around the square.  I notice the Baptistry nearby and decide to go in while Ben shops for tourist trinkets and obscure music suited to his tastes.

As I approach, I hear a choir singing and it is breath-taking, even outside.  I open the door only to have an Italian gentleman in a uniform (the sort national park folks back home wear) smilingly signal me to wait and so I do.

A few minutes pass, the door opens and several folks come streaming out.  I am the only one at the time, so I enter alone and look around the spartan circular space for the choir.  They are nowhere to be seen.

The gentleman who gave me entrance smilingly beckoned me to be seated and he began to sing.  Just him.  No choir.  And it was . . . well, it was beyond words – what his voice and that space did was magic and I simply sat on the concrete bench that hugged the wall and listened and noticed only later the tears streaming down my face.

“Moved to tears” is more than a phrase: beauty in its many forms can and does move us to tears as it did that day in the Baptistry for me with a man whose name I will never know brought beauty to me I wasn’t looking for and did not expect.

For all the musicians in the world . . . opening grace for us in ways expected and unexpected . . . thank you.

The Symphony

I read David Byrne of Talking Heads fame waxing philosophical about music.  I read and learn and am gratified.  We have moved, it seems from music as the sounds around us to our own organization of sound full circle to music as the sound around us.

I hear the sizzle of the candle on my desk made to sizzle . . . the intermittent slap on asphalt of cars and trucks rushing from who knows where to who knows what . . . the occasional bird determined not to fly south for this is not a presage to winter or anything like it . . .

But today I wonder more about the sounds I do not know, have not heard . . . what sound does the black swift make nestled behind the waterfall?

What secret sounds do twins murmur in greeting after a day’s separation?

What sound does God hear when hands are clasped together in that moment before the prayer begins?

In what key do the winds of the Himalayas blow?

Is there harmony in the creaking and breaking of the Arctic ice?

What tempo resounds in the keening of the polar bear for its mate?

Whether I hear it or not; whether I am mindful of it or not, a symphony is happening, filling every moment in every space of this whole wide world and the keys I tap are the tiniest contributors . . . my own pizzicato contribution.

I hope The Conductor is pleased.

When Sound Turns Into Music

Some time ago, my friend and fellow pastor, Melissa, speaking about my struggles to learn to play the cello, with lots of descriptors by me of the screeches and howls I was managing to evoke from my instrument, spoke of her own love of playing and the magic moment when sound turns into music.  Even though I haven’t gotten there on the cello, I knew just what she meant.

A symphony of laundry
from Wikimedia Commons

The rough and tumble mix of voices in the choir melding into one sweet note of accord . . . the murmur of husband and wife emerging into one long note of love . . . the sing-song cadence of the preached sermon transforming into a spoken song of praise . . . a single, understandable word emerging from a baby’s gibberish . . . the moment on the dance floor when you and your partner move as one . . . when the seemingly random calls of the birds clarifies in my ears into the song of the flying world . . . when the sung notes of a single man in the Baptistry in Piza reverberate into a choir of sound as he sings to and with himself . . . when crunching tires in the snow evoke the rhythms of the swishing jazz drum player . . . when the wind-whipped laundry on the line on a cold and bright winter’s day segues into hand-clapping, foot-stomping, finger-snapping, rhythmic gusto . . . when sound turns into music . . . Melissa’s right . . . it is magic.

How Do You Hear the Music?

Do you hear music with your ears?  Your mind?  Your heart?  Your spirit?

I hear music with my body.

Thursday night, a chamber music group of students from Garth Newel performed at the church where I preach.  The sanctuary has wonderful acoustics and it was an amazing evening of lovely music by gifted musicians.

I sat in the back and soaked in the experience.

I couldn’t help noticing, as I have so often before, the others in the audience, so many known to me so well.

Paul sat with eyes shut, head down, listening, it seemed, with every fiber of his being, focused in utter stillness of concentration.

Diane leaned forward, as if she were being embraced by the musical notes filling the air.

Sue and Laura never seemed to move a muscle, so intense was their concentration.

I could only see Les from behind, but it seemed as if he were smiling.

Most folk sat in stillness.

I always wonder at that.

How can they sit so very still?

My body simply won’t be still when there is music.

Toes tap of course.  And the head bobs.  But the body also sways.  Facial muscles respond with smiles and frowns and my mouth makes surprised o shapes.  And my hands take on a life of their own, reaching forward as if to grasp the notes from the very air.  And sometimes I have to physically resist the equally physical urge to jump to my feet.

A quick review of online literature suggests that science has long known that humans have a physiological response to sound and particularly to music.  But the discussions are all about our internal responses: the change in heart rate and respiration, even the suggestion of chemical changes in response to music have been measured.

The question I ponder this week is how are my mind, spirit and body responding to the music that is God in my life?  Where are my feet taking me in response to God’s claim on my life?  To whom are my hands reaching out?  What rhythms are inciting me to act?  Are they God’s rhythms?  Mine?  What symphonies of sound are claiming my attention?

FB survey: just for fun. Check out McDowell Pres’s FB profile and respond to the survey, “What is your spiritual life adjective this week?”, borrowing from musical adjectives heard at the concert. Just click on the link, become a friend if you aren’t already, and join in