As you know, Carrie, I listen to (and write about) a lot of what is called traditional or heritage music; there's a lot of wisdom in those old songs and tunes. What came to mind in answer to your question, though, is a line from a rather more recent song "In my tribe, music is blood memory," which continues to resonate with me at varied times and for various reasons. Cathie Ryan wrote the song, which she called In My Tribe, after she had an experience discussing and sharing her music of Ireland with a trail guide from the Navajo nation in the US southwest.
Nearly 10 years ago now, a spiritual director shared the poem “Lost” by David Wagoner...
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known,
The Forest breathes. Listen, it answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
This poem has spoken in different ways in the decade. It started with the recognition of how lost I felt in my life at that time and trying to find who I was. In the years since, I’ve settled onto the places about being still and seeing and feeling the world (forest) around me. I am sure it will continue to speak in new ways in the next decade+ as well.
I prefer Sunday Musings to your new title. I also receive DBB’s substack. I like the connection I feel between the two due to the similar titles. Diana speaks more to my head, while you speak more to my heart. Together the two “musings” feed my soul.
This morning: sitting by the endless horizon lake, dawn sun of reds and golds, humid breeze, waves lapping, stunned at ‘flight’-not flying/wings flapping, but flight itself, flight! Same flight which allows the osprey to soar allows the butterfly to dance. That fullness of heart, swelling tenderness is that which cannot be named, the paradox of mystery that is yet familiar. I know the nameless, yet that’s all I know. Then a stranger smiles, and I fall in.
I very much like “I do not know its name” ... some really fine writing. Well done! And lovely, lovely cello ...
I love Sanctuary and Room at the Table for Everyone.
As you know, Carrie, I listen to (and write about) a lot of what is called traditional or heritage music; there's a lot of wisdom in those old songs and tunes. What came to mind in answer to your question, though, is a line from a rather more recent song "In my tribe, music is blood memory," which continues to resonate with me at varied times and for various reasons. Cathie Ryan wrote the song, which she called In My Tribe, after she had an experience discussing and sharing her music of Ireland with a trail guide from the Navajo nation in the US southwest.
Thank you for so beautifully expressing your feelings about things that can not be explained.
What I Know
As I grow old
I now sit and ponder
wondering about
all that I don’t know.
I don’t know:
If the butterfly effect is true
and the flapping of their wings
can change the course
of the universe.
I don’t know:
If our lives on this small speck
have any significance
in the billions of years
before and after us.
I don’t know:
If there is a here-after.
Will it be full of laughter?
Or if it at all
really matters.
I don’t know:
Why so many on this planet
live in poverty and distress
while I am
so blessed?
I don’t know:
if this life is random
and capricious
or has something
now to teach us.
I don’t know:
All the players on the stage
or how long the
curtain will be raised
for the next act.
I do know:
That I will not live forever
and therefore, I treasure
these precious moments
beneath the stars.
Copyright @2021 by Kenn Storck - May be used with permission. kennstorck@gmail.com
Will you ever consider coming to Asheville NC? I hope someday!
Martie
Nearly 10 years ago now, a spiritual director shared the poem “Lost” by David Wagoner...
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known,
The Forest breathes. Listen, it answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
This poem has spoken in different ways in the decade. It started with the recognition of how lost I felt in my life at that time and trying to find who I was. In the years since, I’ve settled onto the places about being still and seeing and feeling the world (forest) around me. I am sure it will continue to speak in new ways in the next decade+ as well.
I remember long ago hearing you sing an acapella song - All around the shoreline (or all along the shoreline?)
When I'm hiking in the woods i try to sing it to the trees. here's what I remember of it -
'All around the shoreline
where the hemlocks grow
where the loon sings crazy, somewhere far below
and time stands still
or at least it seems asleep
All around the shoreline, all around the shoreline
I prefer Sunday Musings to your new title. I also receive DBB’s substack. I like the connection I feel between the two due to the similar titles. Diana speaks more to my head, while you speak more to my heart. Together the two “musings” feed my soul.
This morning: sitting by the endless horizon lake, dawn sun of reds and golds, humid breeze, waves lapping, stunned at ‘flight’-not flying/wings flapping, but flight itself, flight! Same flight which allows the osprey to soar allows the butterfly to dance. That fullness of heart, swelling tenderness is that which cannot be named, the paradox of mystery that is yet familiar. I know the nameless, yet that’s all I know. Then a stranger smiles, and I fall in.
From a ‘negro spiritual’:
The very time I thought I was lost, the dungeon shook and my chains fell off
Thank you for your prompt this morning (and every Sunday).
The lyrics of the Indigo Girl song "Closer to Fine" continue to reverberate in my life over these past decades:
"There's more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
Closer I am to fine"
I’m so grateful for you, your art and the communities you build. I hope you know how deeply appreciated you are.