Songs of spirit, like a prayer breathing in the ancient air.
Singing in the morning light, in the radiance of the day,
in the twilight shadows gray, in the brooding hush of night.
Dark or light, or storm, or fair--singing, singing, everywhere.
In the burgeoning of spring, in the summer's scented bloom,
in the autumn's mellow glow, in the winter's ice and snow.
Shade, or shine, or joy, or gloom, as the seasons come and go,
bleak and bare, or blossoming--still the songs that sing and sing!
Singing, singing everywhere, at the heart of everything.
In my soul I hear them sing. Mystic music of the spheres.
Songs that, with my utmost art, I can only catch in part.
Broken echoes, cold and bare, of the songs my spirit hears.
text by Marion Franklin Ham, music by Thomas Oboe Lee
Not your grandmother's hymn, for sure. No key signature, accidentals all over, not so predictable, and it doesn't rhyme: nice.
I've been missing music lately, and not for lack of doing it at all, but not doing it enough of late. I'll be performing this Sunday in a piece that my husband has composed (http://zenglop.typepad.com/zenglop/) and I need to work on it, even though no one will actually hear what I'm singing or playing on this one. Still, the singing must be beautiful as the song is beautiful.
I'm missing playing mandolin, since my banjo-playing friend is deserting me for South Africa: who will explore the magical world of bluegrass with me now? More importantly, I will not play so often without a musical date on my calendar. I did schedule my first mandolin lesson (birthday gift from my daughter), so in theory this will inspire me. I am also taking the mandolin on vacation--it turns out that a guitar or smaller can be one's carry on when you fly.
I did get to drum on my birthday, and my doumbek playing was not a total disaster, which pleases me.