For some there comes a time when a second chance is given.That time then becomes a celebration of the unrecognized gifts of the past and humble gratitude for the wonder of present.
This then is a collection of reflections and comments on life,work,love and faith to be sung ,and danced to, in thanksgiving for a second chance.
It has been advised that a blog about music might be an
appropriate consideration.
Until such a time the following will need to suffice.
It was so sad to experience the passing on of so many excellent
singer songwriters in 2016 but witnessing and reading the abundant tributes it
became evident that two of this author’s favorites were not mentioned among
many of the tributes and remembrances!
Guy Clark and Merle Haggard are two who have inspired and
consoled this writer. Their simple sweet songs captured a human essence rarely
experienced in contemporary music today. I guess the best way for me to honor
their passing is not just to post a sample or two of their songs here but to
make sure they show up on my own set list. Thank you men…miss you!
NB: For all you Country Music newbies the real original
country music had and still maintains real poetic natural homespun soul and was
much more than the slick overproduced Las Vegased country twanged guitars and affective
nasal south of the Mason-Dixon
line vocals with playing three
chord rock n roll riffs and beats in disguise you hear on the radio today. Some of that new genre ain’t bad
but no matter what the industry calls it “it ain’t country!”
"Into this world, this
demented inn, where there was absolutely no room for him at all, Christ comes
uninvited.”
- Thomas Merton
For Religious fanatics only...
Charlie Brown asked Lucy why she
was so happy. Lucy explained how it was "Christmas" and she
explained further that this was the time of year to "spread joy, caring,
compassion, giving and love." Charlie Brown wondered to Lucy, "Why
do we just do these things at Christmastime and why can't we do those things
all year round?" Lucy yelled at Charlie Brown "What are you some
type of religious fanatic?"
From small villages his heroes
and
great things seem to come.
There was that asterisked Home
Run champion,
A nobel awarded vagabond singing
poet ,
And best of all - a son king born
in poverty-
living peace, love and mercy.
Though the journey not always
easy
And the path not always clear,
The way is simple.
Those who doubt and those who
stray
Are welcomed
To join the returning prodigal
Sons and daughters and their
celebration.
No formula , elaborate scientific
calculation
Or manufactured drug
Will result that which is
discovered when the heart
Lets go opening self to the fulness of time and
To what the soul has known all
along.
And the blessing of the miracle
of babies at Christmas continues:
Frederick Franck in writing
about spirituality spoke of the Bodhidarma in the 6th century who
said something like “It has been suggested that All That Matters is
transmiitted outside of all scriptures, not depending on words or letters but
pointing at the true human mind/heart making us see our true nature…”
Sometimes
in that birthing moment on the first of November
In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry
hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of
heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this
world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.
