I keep going back to this beautiful song on the Biola Advent Project. You can hear it at this link. It's written and performed by an Anglican worship pastor, Marty Reardon.
Come shepherds, come wise-men,
Both rich and poor alike,
Come Hebrews, come Gentiles,
Come every race and tribe,
For Christ is born the Savior's come to us!
Come children, come elders,
Come women and come men,
Come families, come orphans,
Come strangers and close friends,
For Christ is born the Savior's come to us!
Come wretched, come holy,
Both strong and weak in faith,
Come healed and come broken,
Come sinners and come saints,
For Christ is born the Savior's come to us!
Emmanuel, God has come to us!
*****
I think what I love most about this song is the wonderful realization that Emmanuel has come to be with us -- ALL of us. There is no one who is not included in his love. He has come to be with us all, to love us all, to reconcile us all to the Father. He wants to welcome us all into his everlasting kingdom, the kingdom that will never be destroyed. I am feeling unutterably grateful for the good news of the gospel.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Sunday, December 04, 2016
Friday, September 16, 2016
So Do Not Fear, For I Am With You (Isaiah 41:10)
A few minutes ago, a friend posted this verse on FB. It's one of my favorites, and has been for a long time:
"So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
I pasted it here in the New International Version (NIV) because that's the version I learned via this wonderful music setting of the verse from Seeds Family Worship.
Of course, this will now be in my head all day long. Somehow I think that's probably a good thing!
"So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
I pasted it here in the New International Version (NIV) because that's the version I learned via this wonderful music setting of the verse from Seeds Family Worship.
Of course, this will now be in my head all day long. Somehow I think that's probably a good thing!
Friday, August 19, 2016
Maybe All I've Got is Hope
I wrote a song this morning. That doesn't happen too often. It spoke to my heart. I hope it speaks to yours.
On the muted video she’s mouthing words in silent rage
And the comments on the post below uncover an uncivil age
And while I know the world is broken and unjust and filled
with pain
Right now I lack the wherewithal to muster my disdain
For the mongers and the stokers and the ones who stir unrest
Even though I know among them may be prophets and the blessed
So much though sounds unrighteous, so much just looks plain
wrong
And I’m longing for compassion to become our louder song
And I think that if we learned lament we’d find a better
place
For our anger and our sorrow and the things that we can’t
face
Maybe I’m just tired,
maybe I’m just worn
Maybe I’m just praying
for the world to be reborn
Maybe I’m on tiptoes
for a kingdom yet to come
Maybe all I’ve got is
hope or else I am undone
Sometimes I think I cannot look at one more shattered life
Or read another story about warfare, about strife
I’m pretty sure the ink on the Psalms is not yet dry
And the anger that they shout out is as potent as the “why”
It seems that asking “how long” is a heart cry from of old
That reminds me when I bow my head, it’s time to make it
bold
I’m praying for the energy to sing that kind of song
In the midst of my own brokenness and my own “how long”
Some days all I can manage is a limping move toward grace
Where I sit before the beauty of the world’s more loving
face
Maybe I’m just tired,
maybe I’m just worn
Maybe I’m just praying
for the world to be reborn
Maybe I’m on tiptoes
for a kingdom yet to come
Maybe all I’ve got is
hope or else I am undone
(~EMP, 8/19/2016)
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Take These Few Fish and Crumbs of Bread
When I got my recent good news from my scans, and learned that there is indeed some healing beginning to take place in my body, this is the song that began to play in my head: Michael Card's "Make Me a Miracle."
The song is from his recording "Close Your Eyes So You Can See," which we used to listen to a lot when the sweet girl was little. The songs are all written about, or sometimes from the perspective of, children in Scripture. In "Make Me a Miracle," he imagines these words coming from the boy with the loaves and fishes:
"Take these few fish and crumbs of bread,
It's all that I can do.
But most of all, Lord, take my life,
and make me a miracle too."
I sang that the other day while I cried a little over the miracle God is doing right now in my body. I don't even feel I've got anything on offer really, not even what the little the boy had, but God is able to work with nothing as well as with very little. So thankful.
I was thinking of the feeding of the five thousand this morning as I read the scene in John 6 for my morning quiet time. As much as I love Michael Card's song -- I love imaginings based on Scriptural scenes, especially when they are as creative and faithful as Card's imaginings always are -- the boy doesn't really feature much in the story. It's not much of a stretch to imagine that he did interact with Jesus that day, and that his life was forever changed by what he saw Jesus do with his lunch. But it's the disciples that the text is concerned with here, especially Philip and Andrew.
I find this intriguing because neither of those disciples gets much attention in the gospels, at least not nearly the amount that the big three (Peter, James, and John) get. Of course we know from the gospels themselves that Jesus defines greatness very differently from the world, so ranking the disciples in terms of importance isn't what I'm going for here, though I think we have a tendency to do that sometimes. All of the people chosen by Jesus were honored and blessed to be chosen. They had a unique place in his mission and were given the opportunity to be trained in his service by staying "up close" with Jesus for the years of his ministry.
Still we don't hear much from or about some of them, and it feels significant when a gospel gives us a story in which some of the lesser known disciples feature. In this story, Jesus first "tests" Philip by asking him "where are we going to buy bread for all these people?" even though, John tells us, Jesus already knew what he was going to do. Philip offers a pragmatic answer that isn't really an answer. He just points out the impossibility of feeding them given that they don't have enough money to buy food so that each person can get even a little.
"And speaking of a little..." is what Andrew seems to say next. He jumps into the conversation feet first with "There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish...." It doesn't take much imagination again to picture the rest of the disciples looking at him like he's crazy for opening his mouth and making such a suggestion. I can practically imagine at least one of them frantically shaking his head at Andrew, sort of behind Jesus' back, as if to say, "Be quiet, don't be stupid!"
But I also love Andrew's finish. Again, I sort of picture him seeing the incredulous looks on his friends' faces over his dumb observation, and I think of him trailing off lamely as he adds "...but what are they for so many?" The question in the second half of what he says seems to call into question the beautiful boldness of the first part of his statement. Because Andrew was on the right track with that first part, wasn't he? He was pointing out, to Jesus, what they had -- not focusing like Philip on what they didn't have.
I relate to Andrew here. Sometimes I see the possibilities, small as they are, and I want to offer them in great excitement to my Lord. Then I hear the audaciousness in my own voice and I get afraid of looking silly, I get afraid that whatever is on offer can't possibly be enough. I doubt myself and I doubt God. Offering our little (or pointing out someone else's little) can be so hard sometimes, because what if God doesn't come through? What if a little stays a little?
It helps when we remember that God can work, even from nothing, to bring about what needs to be. It helps if we keep our eyes on Jesus and not on our own fears or even at the well-meaning friends frantically mouthing at us "don't say that, don't go there, don't be so bold, are you crazy?"
It helps if we remember that Jesus is the one who can literally set a table in the wilderness.
And so he does. Andrew's question turns out not to be rhetorical (as it looks at first glance) and it turns out not to be crazy. "What are they for so many?" directed to Jesus becomes a solid answer. They are enough. They are more than enough. Give them to me, Jesus essentially says, and watch what I will do.
The song is from his recording "Close Your Eyes So You Can See," which we used to listen to a lot when the sweet girl was little. The songs are all written about, or sometimes from the perspective of, children in Scripture. In "Make Me a Miracle," he imagines these words coming from the boy with the loaves and fishes:
"Take these few fish and crumbs of bread,
It's all that I can do.
But most of all, Lord, take my life,
and make me a miracle too."
I sang that the other day while I cried a little over the miracle God is doing right now in my body. I don't even feel I've got anything on offer really, not even what the little the boy had, but God is able to work with nothing as well as with very little. So thankful.
I was thinking of the feeding of the five thousand this morning as I read the scene in John 6 for my morning quiet time. As much as I love Michael Card's song -- I love imaginings based on Scriptural scenes, especially when they are as creative and faithful as Card's imaginings always are -- the boy doesn't really feature much in the story. It's not much of a stretch to imagine that he did interact with Jesus that day, and that his life was forever changed by what he saw Jesus do with his lunch. But it's the disciples that the text is concerned with here, especially Philip and Andrew.
I find this intriguing because neither of those disciples gets much attention in the gospels, at least not nearly the amount that the big three (Peter, James, and John) get. Of course we know from the gospels themselves that Jesus defines greatness very differently from the world, so ranking the disciples in terms of importance isn't what I'm going for here, though I think we have a tendency to do that sometimes. All of the people chosen by Jesus were honored and blessed to be chosen. They had a unique place in his mission and were given the opportunity to be trained in his service by staying "up close" with Jesus for the years of his ministry.
Still we don't hear much from or about some of them, and it feels significant when a gospel gives us a story in which some of the lesser known disciples feature. In this story, Jesus first "tests" Philip by asking him "where are we going to buy bread for all these people?" even though, John tells us, Jesus already knew what he was going to do. Philip offers a pragmatic answer that isn't really an answer. He just points out the impossibility of feeding them given that they don't have enough money to buy food so that each person can get even a little.
"And speaking of a little..." is what Andrew seems to say next. He jumps into the conversation feet first with "There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish...." It doesn't take much imagination again to picture the rest of the disciples looking at him like he's crazy for opening his mouth and making such a suggestion. I can practically imagine at least one of them frantically shaking his head at Andrew, sort of behind Jesus' back, as if to say, "Be quiet, don't be stupid!"
But I also love Andrew's finish. Again, I sort of picture him seeing the incredulous looks on his friends' faces over his dumb observation, and I think of him trailing off lamely as he adds "...but what are they for so many?" The question in the second half of what he says seems to call into question the beautiful boldness of the first part of his statement. Because Andrew was on the right track with that first part, wasn't he? He was pointing out, to Jesus, what they had -- not focusing like Philip on what they didn't have.
I relate to Andrew here. Sometimes I see the possibilities, small as they are, and I want to offer them in great excitement to my Lord. Then I hear the audaciousness in my own voice and I get afraid of looking silly, I get afraid that whatever is on offer can't possibly be enough. I doubt myself and I doubt God. Offering our little (or pointing out someone else's little) can be so hard sometimes, because what if God doesn't come through? What if a little stays a little?
It helps when we remember that God can work, even from nothing, to bring about what needs to be. It helps if we keep our eyes on Jesus and not on our own fears or even at the well-meaning friends frantically mouthing at us "don't say that, don't go there, don't be so bold, are you crazy?"
It helps if we remember that Jesus is the one who can literally set a table in the wilderness.
And so he does. Andrew's question turns out not to be rhetorical (as it looks at first glance) and it turns out not to be crazy. "What are they for so many?" directed to Jesus becomes a solid answer. They are enough. They are more than enough. Give them to me, Jesus essentially says, and watch what I will do.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
I've Started Singing Again
One of the things I've missed so much since getting sick is singing. I am used to singing most days -- not formally, but just as I go about the day. I've always loved to sing and dance while cooking or cleaning. I've always loved to sing at church.
I've been too exhausted for months to sing. My throat and mouth have been bone dry (literally) from the chemo, and even if I had wanted to sing, it would have come out like a frog croaking. I've held onto praise inwardly -- sometimes with a very tight grip -- but everything has been very inward for a long time as I've just clung to Jesus and hung on.
Yesterday I was playing some music and I suddenly started to sing aloud. And later I was trying to remember a song and sang part of it. And then today I've had some time alone and I started playing some favorite videos and I started to sing again. I can't say it sounds beautiful (I'm still pretty croaky) but it FEELS beautiful, because it feels like my spirit is waking up like a flower after a bitter winter. I may be stiff and broken (and bald) but my hands are starting to lift heavenward. "Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, the earth is yours!" (I sing along with Gungor...)
Dancing, of course, has been out of the question. The pain and stiffness in my leg make it hard to walk, much less dance. I'm not there yet, but I can tell that my body is wanting to dance again too. I sit in my chair at the kitchen table and my hands rise and wave and my feet start to tap. And I pray it is just a matter of time.
I've been too exhausted for months to sing. My throat and mouth have been bone dry (literally) from the chemo, and even if I had wanted to sing, it would have come out like a frog croaking. I've held onto praise inwardly -- sometimes with a very tight grip -- but everything has been very inward for a long time as I've just clung to Jesus and hung on.
Yesterday I was playing some music and I suddenly started to sing aloud. And later I was trying to remember a song and sang part of it. And then today I've had some time alone and I started playing some favorite videos and I started to sing again. I can't say it sounds beautiful (I'm still pretty croaky) but it FEELS beautiful, because it feels like my spirit is waking up like a flower after a bitter winter. I may be stiff and broken (and bald) but my hands are starting to lift heavenward. "Holy, Holy, Holy Lord, the earth is yours!" (I sing along with Gungor...)
Dancing, of course, has been out of the question. The pain and stiffness in my leg make it hard to walk, much less dance. I'm not there yet, but I can tell that my body is wanting to dance again too. I sit in my chair at the kitchen table and my hands rise and wave and my feet start to tap. And I pray it is just a matter of time.
Friday, November 20, 2015
Hard Times Come Again No More
I first learned the beautiful song "Hard Times Come Again No More" from Emmylou Harris. It was written (in case you don't know -- I didn't until recently) by Stephen Foster, the wonderfully prolific 19th century songwriter who also penned "Beautiful Dreamer," "I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair," "My Old Kentucky Home," "Camptown Races," and "O! Susana!"
Oh, and "Slumber my Darling," which you really need to hear here, performed by Alison Kraus with Yo-Yo Ma, Mark O'Connor, and Edgar Meyer.
The sweet girl and I were listening to Foster's music today as part of her 1850s history unit. We played the Emmylou Harris version, of course, but we also listened to the deep, rich tones of Mavis Staples and the gravely gravity of Johnny Cash.
This is a song that travels well.
And I don't know -- but on top of all the heartbreaking news recently regarding Syrian refugees and escalating terror attacks in so many places -- I heard this song with a bigger lump in my throat than ever before. Those first two lines feel like a siren call to prayer.
Hard Times Come Again No More
(Stephen Foster)
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus:
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard Times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
2.
While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus
3.
There's a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away,
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er:
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day,
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus
4.
'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus
Oh, and "Slumber my Darling," which you really need to hear here, performed by Alison Kraus with Yo-Yo Ma, Mark O'Connor, and Edgar Meyer.
The sweet girl and I were listening to Foster's music today as part of her 1850s history unit. We played the Emmylou Harris version, of course, but we also listened to the deep, rich tones of Mavis Staples and the gravely gravity of Johnny Cash.
This is a song that travels well.
And I don't know -- but on top of all the heartbreaking news recently regarding Syrian refugees and escalating terror attacks in so many places -- I heard this song with a bigger lump in my throat than ever before. Those first two lines feel like a siren call to prayer.
Hard Times Come Again No More
(Stephen Foster)
Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus:
'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard Times, hard times, come again no more
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
2.
While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus
3.
There's a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away,
With a worn heart whose better days are o'er:
Though her voice would be merry, 'tis sighing all the day,
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus
4.
'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave
Oh! Hard times come again no more.
Chorus
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Thankful Day
After the exhausting week and the icky Saturday (which probably came through loud and clear in my curmudgeonly post yesterday) I just have to say how thankful I am for this Sunday. The temperatures moderated into the low 30s, which did wonders for my morale.
Morning worship was lovely, infused with a lot of music that paid tribute to the late Andrae Crouch (an amazing gospel singer and musician who passed away last week). D and I both dearly love Andrae's music, and our family has been praying for him for quite some time in his recent months of illness. I loved the fact that our congregation is Anglo-Baptist (grin) enough that today we got to celebrate Andre's legacy, especially with the final rollicking strains of his "Soon and Very Soon, We are Goin' to See the King."
Sunday School and missions committee meeting were both full of challenges, but today challenges felt good, as did loving and serving as wholeheartedly as I could. Despite my inadequacies everywhere, God's love sure does make up for all I'm not.
A walk home in those more moderate temperatures, fifteen minutes of pure quiet to enjoy before the rest of the fam got home from grocery shopping, and a lunch made of fresh strawberries, Robert Frost poetry, and time with my 12 year old -- thankfully in much better space herself today! -- were also blessings. D. had to go back to work (it is, after all, still January) but S. and I proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon baking bread after she built a quick snowman on our sidewalk, courtesy of the slight melt that had come to the snow mountains.I snuck in a little bit more reading on Charles Marsh's new biography of Bonhoeffer, and even managed the first chapter of my new P.D. James.
I know I may rue the fact that I didn't work on deadlines today, but sometimes rest, in all sorts of forms, is even more important. Very thankful for this day!
Morning worship was lovely, infused with a lot of music that paid tribute to the late Andrae Crouch (an amazing gospel singer and musician who passed away last week). D and I both dearly love Andrae's music, and our family has been praying for him for quite some time in his recent months of illness. I loved the fact that our congregation is Anglo-Baptist (grin) enough that today we got to celebrate Andre's legacy, especially with the final rollicking strains of his "Soon and Very Soon, We are Goin' to See the King."
Sunday School and missions committee meeting were both full of challenges, but today challenges felt good, as did loving and serving as wholeheartedly as I could. Despite my inadequacies everywhere, God's love sure does make up for all I'm not.
A walk home in those more moderate temperatures, fifteen minutes of pure quiet to enjoy before the rest of the fam got home from grocery shopping, and a lunch made of fresh strawberries, Robert Frost poetry, and time with my 12 year old -- thankfully in much better space herself today! -- were also blessings. D. had to go back to work (it is, after all, still January) but S. and I proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon baking bread after she built a quick snowman on our sidewalk, courtesy of the slight melt that had come to the snow mountains.I snuck in a little bit more reading on Charles Marsh's new biography of Bonhoeffer, and even managed the first chapter of my new P.D. James.
I know I may rue the fact that I didn't work on deadlines today, but sometimes rest, in all sorts of forms, is even more important. Very thankful for this day!
Wednesday, July 02, 2014
The Gospel According to Frozen
Our family came late to the Frozen phenomenon. We didn't see the film until it came out on DVD, and though we all loved it, and the sweet girl has come to love it even more after several viewings, our singing of those darn catchy songs came six months after most people got stuck on them. We've laughed over several parody songs and videos (my favorite may be "Do You Wanna Go to Starbucks?") and enjoyed singing the actual songs around the house thanks to a library-borrowed copy of the soundtrack. Oh, and fallen firmly in love with Olaf, of course.
S. ended up watching it again the other day, and I sat down to enjoy it with her as I'd promised. It was the first time in a while that I'd watched the whole movie instead of just snatches, and I found myself impressed again by the lovely visuals, the smart storytelling, and that great narrative choice at the end that shows the power of sacrificial love and pays tribute to the wonderful bond of sisterhood. (Just in case you're one of a handful of people who has not yet succumbed to seeing the film, I'll try to keep that vague.)
A couple of other things really impressed me this time through, however, and I found myself thinking "that'll preach" at least twice. Once comes in the reprise of "For the First Time and Forever" when Anna is in the ice palace talking to Elsa, trying to convince her that together, they can fix the terrible winter that Elsa accidentally set loose when she lost her temper and gave into fear.
Anna's sweet earnestness is so palpable here: she is just so relieved that she finally gets why her sister has been hiding for so long, and is sure that the two of them, standing firmly together, can find a way to make things right. She also has a touching belief that her sister is capable of undoing the damage she's done -- she's sure that Elsa will not only want to do the right thing, but that she'll be able to find a way to undo it. It hasn't fully dawned on her that Elsa not only doesn't know the extent of the damage she's inadvertently inflicted, but has no clue how to reverse it...and is more terrified than ever of anyone, especially her beloved sister, getting close to her in case she accidentally hurts her again. It's a powerful musical reprise, with the two of them singing together but once again showing in their words how far apart they are. Anna sings her sweet assurance, while Elsa sings her despair, ending on the crushing clashing words "I CAN'T!"
It's those words that give me shivers every time; they come from such a deep place of fear, and accompany Elsa's unintentional unleashing, yet again, of crushing hurt. And yet there's freedom in the words too, when you think about it. In emotional and spiritual terms, this is where Elsa pretty much hits rock bottom -- she's completely at the end of herself, and there's nowhere to go here but up. Yes, things get crazier later on, mostly when she's threatened by the usurpers who see her struggles as their opportunity to cash in and make a power grab, but there's something almost more freeing in this "I can't" moment than in anything in the "Let it Go" song, when Elsa is re-learning the joy of the creative powers of her gifts, but reaching the firm conclusion that the only way to be free is to shut herself off from everyone else in case she loses control again.
The other bit I never noticed came ever earlier, when Elsa first accidentally hurts Anna when they're children. She is devastated that their joyful playtime turned frightening and that her attempts to save Anna from injury actually ended in hurting her. When her parents take Anna to the trolls for healing, the head troll makes the comment that he can help her because it's only her head that's received the freezing jolt, not her heart. Cold minds and thoughts, as it turns out, are not good, but they're somehow still on the surface, far easier to heal than frozen hearts. I love this insight: that it's the heart that matters the most. At the root, it a heart problem that needs help and healing we cannot provide for ourselves, and only true love (sacrificial, deep, real true love) can ever fix a damaged heart.
Yup. That'll preach.
S. ended up watching it again the other day, and I sat down to enjoy it with her as I'd promised. It was the first time in a while that I'd watched the whole movie instead of just snatches, and I found myself impressed again by the lovely visuals, the smart storytelling, and that great narrative choice at the end that shows the power of sacrificial love and pays tribute to the wonderful bond of sisterhood. (Just in case you're one of a handful of people who has not yet succumbed to seeing the film, I'll try to keep that vague.)
A couple of other things really impressed me this time through, however, and I found myself thinking "that'll preach" at least twice. Once comes in the reprise of "For the First Time and Forever" when Anna is in the ice palace talking to Elsa, trying to convince her that together, they can fix the terrible winter that Elsa accidentally set loose when she lost her temper and gave into fear.
Anna's sweet earnestness is so palpable here: she is just so relieved that she finally gets why her sister has been hiding for so long, and is sure that the two of them, standing firmly together, can find a way to make things right. She also has a touching belief that her sister is capable of undoing the damage she's done -- she's sure that Elsa will not only want to do the right thing, but that she'll be able to find a way to undo it. It hasn't fully dawned on her that Elsa not only doesn't know the extent of the damage she's inadvertently inflicted, but has no clue how to reverse it...and is more terrified than ever of anyone, especially her beloved sister, getting close to her in case she accidentally hurts her again. It's a powerful musical reprise, with the two of them singing together but once again showing in their words how far apart they are. Anna sings her sweet assurance, while Elsa sings her despair, ending on the crushing clashing words "I CAN'T!"
It's those words that give me shivers every time; they come from such a deep place of fear, and accompany Elsa's unintentional unleashing, yet again, of crushing hurt. And yet there's freedom in the words too, when you think about it. In emotional and spiritual terms, this is where Elsa pretty much hits rock bottom -- she's completely at the end of herself, and there's nowhere to go here but up. Yes, things get crazier later on, mostly when she's threatened by the usurpers who see her struggles as their opportunity to cash in and make a power grab, but there's something almost more freeing in this "I can't" moment than in anything in the "Let it Go" song, when Elsa is re-learning the joy of the creative powers of her gifts, but reaching the firm conclusion that the only way to be free is to shut herself off from everyone else in case she loses control again.
The other bit I never noticed came ever earlier, when Elsa first accidentally hurts Anna when they're children. She is devastated that their joyful playtime turned frightening and that her attempts to save Anna from injury actually ended in hurting her. When her parents take Anna to the trolls for healing, the head troll makes the comment that he can help her because it's only her head that's received the freezing jolt, not her heart. Cold minds and thoughts, as it turns out, are not good, but they're somehow still on the surface, far easier to heal than frozen hearts. I love this insight: that it's the heart that matters the most. At the root, it a heart problem that needs help and healing we cannot provide for ourselves, and only true love (sacrificial, deep, real true love) can ever fix a damaged heart.
Yup. That'll preach.
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
How Quietly the Morning Dawns (A Christmas Hymn)
For my annual advent poem this year, I decided to write a Christmas hymn. A blessed, happy, holy Christmas to you and all you love!
How quietly the morning dawns!
Gold streams across the sky,
And in the stable Mary sleeps, her
baby sleeps nearby.
And Joseph drowses by the door to
guard his family dear,
While echoes of angelic song
remind them Love’s drawn near.
How quickly did the Light arrive
in the middle of the night,
How bright and beautiful the Babe
who’s come to give us sight.
We wandered in the cold and dark,
all alone and so afraid,
But now we marvel at this child;
he’s just as God had said.
The promise spoke by prophets bold
in days so long ago,
Kept alive for all these years is
now fulfilled in Mary’s son.
We’ve wept and waited, watched and
prayed, to see his strength and might;
Now in the still and wakening day,
we’re given brand new sight.
Our understanding dawns like gold,
like sun across a cloud,
To the weak and poor he humbly
came and not unto the proud.
This tiny baby wrapped in rags and
slumbering in the morn
Has changed us all and all the
world. Rejoice that He is born!
~EMP, Advent
2013
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Feeling and Thinking
“ Mozart fulfills me. But I cannot think about his music; I have to listen to it.” ~Pope Francis
Not long ago, I came across this beautiful quote from Pope Francis. I so resonated with it, and it keeps coming back to me as I contemplate my experience of both music and stories.
It seems to me that our deepest experience of either music or story comes when we fall headfirst, or perhaps heartfirst, inside the world that's been created. We find ourselves in the world of sound and harmony or the world of narrative and poetry, and while there, all we can do is listen, not think outside of the experience.
When we're inside that subcreated world, listening is what matters. I think many of us have had the literal sense of being so lost (and paradoxically so found) inside a created song or story that it feels like a "coming back" to the outside world when the last note sounds or the final word is read and we close the book.
Many of the best things we read or listen to do indeed cause us to think, but the thinking comes later, and that kind of more analytical thinking is a distinctly different kind of pleasure than what we experienced in our initial encounter with the work. We might think about the creation of the work itself: how did the composer, the writer, do what he did, and why? What thoughts or experiences inspired a certain bend or turn in the work that we didn't expect? Frankly, I love doing that kind of thinking, but not everyone does, and I don't think we need to assume that a person who doesn't love it has had any less of a deep experience, though they may respond in a completely different way.
Just a few rambling thoughts this afternoon...more to come another day.
Wednesday, January 09, 2013
Patchwork Post: Epiphany, Les Mis, Books & Writing Life
Epiphany began on Sunday, which means the Wise Men have settled in at the creche. The sweet girl takes them on a long trek around the living room, up and down various pieces of furniture, before they land at the stable. (Not historically accurate, no, but it's still a delight to have them there worshiping the newborn king along with the shepherds and townspeople and various animals who have been there for weeks.)
We still have our Christmas tree up. In recent years, we've begun leaving it up longer and longer -- now that we're not putting up a cut tree, that's possible -- mostly because we all agree we need the lights. January can be dark and cold, and a little extra light is just fine by me. This year I've been especially blessed by our glass angel topper. D and S decorated the tree while I was down with the flu, and they put her right on top of a green light (green is my favorite color) so she glows from within with a lovely green luminosity. We will likely do our "breakin' down Christmas" traditions this coming weekend, unless family pleas (it won't take much) press me to go even a week longer.
D. and I had a date night last Friday, the first in quite a while. We decided to go to a movie (it had been a very long time indeed since we'd done that!) and took in "Les Miserables." We love the musical, having seen it twice over the years, once in Philadelphia and once in Pittsburgh. We also had the London cast album for a while (though it was stolen from us several years ago...yes, I know, such irony...if the thief is ever dragged before me, I promise I will be forgiving). D. got me a lovely 3-disc version of the entire libretto for Christmas, which he found used. It highlights performers from stage versions all around the world. So I'd been humming for a couple of days before we made it to the theater, where I was blown away by the grace and beauty of the film. My review of it can be found at the link here. I think the most important conclusion I reached in the review was this:
I'm re-reading Leonard Marcus' introduction in Listening for Madeleine and am drafting my review of the book, which left me feeling such a mixture of feelings I'm having a hard time putting my response into words. I suppose the best thing it did for me was to make me realize anew how important Madeleine's work has been in my life and how much I miss her.
I'm enjoying Prayers for the Writer, compiled by Gary D. Schmidt and Elizabeth Stickney. While looking for Schmidt books recently, I came across a used copy of a textbook on children's literature he co-authored a decade or so ago, and picked it up for almost nothing. (I subscribe to the school of thought that if Gary Schmidt has anything to do with a book, it will be good. Sort of the same school of thought that says if Alan Rickman read the phone book, I'd sit there and listen.) Though I'm not usually a fan of text books, this is one is lively and about a topic near and dear to my heart, and each chapter (on different genres in children's lit) also includes reflections and exercises for those teaching and writing literature for children. It's helping me think through some things for my non-fiction WIP, which at the moment feels more front-burnerish than my fiction, though that's definitely still simmering too.
We still have our Christmas tree up. In recent years, we've begun leaving it up longer and longer -- now that we're not putting up a cut tree, that's possible -- mostly because we all agree we need the lights. January can be dark and cold, and a little extra light is just fine by me. This year I've been especially blessed by our glass angel topper. D and S decorated the tree while I was down with the flu, and they put her right on top of a green light (green is my favorite color) so she glows from within with a lovely green luminosity. We will likely do our "breakin' down Christmas" traditions this coming weekend, unless family pleas (it won't take much) press me to go even a week longer.
D. and I had a date night last Friday, the first in quite a while. We decided to go to a movie (it had been a very long time indeed since we'd done that!) and took in "Les Miserables." We love the musical, having seen it twice over the years, once in Philadelphia and once in Pittsburgh. We also had the London cast album for a while (though it was stolen from us several years ago...yes, I know, such irony...if the thief is ever dragged before me, I promise I will be forgiving). D. got me a lovely 3-disc version of the entire libretto for Christmas, which he found used. It highlights performers from stage versions all around the world. So I'd been humming for a couple of days before we made it to the theater, where I was blown away by the grace and beauty of the film. My review of it can be found at the link here. I think the most important conclusion I reached in the review was this:
And oh my....Hugh Jackman's performance is amazing. As is Anne Hathaway's. Lots of tears shed before I left the theater, and they were cathartic tears.
What I think the filmmakers do best here, however, is not to make the film “bigger” than the stage version, but to make it “smaller.” Drawing on the strength of the story’s characters, the film provides us with up-close, intimate moments with them, closer than we’re able to get to them on stage. That makes some of the singing performances especially powerful and poignant.
I'm re-reading Leonard Marcus' introduction in Listening for Madeleine and am drafting my review of the book, which left me feeling such a mixture of feelings I'm having a hard time putting my response into words. I suppose the best thing it did for me was to make me realize anew how important Madeleine's work has been in my life and how much I miss her.
I'm enjoying Prayers for the Writer, compiled by Gary D. Schmidt and Elizabeth Stickney. While looking for Schmidt books recently, I came across a used copy of a textbook on children's literature he co-authored a decade or so ago, and picked it up for almost nothing. (I subscribe to the school of thought that if Gary Schmidt has anything to do with a book, it will be good. Sort of the same school of thought that says if Alan Rickman read the phone book, I'd sit there and listen.) Though I'm not usually a fan of text books, this is one is lively and about a topic near and dear to my heart, and each chapter (on different genres in children's lit) also includes reflections and exercises for those teaching and writing literature for children. It's helping me think through some things for my non-fiction WIP, which at the moment feels more front-burnerish than my fiction, though that's definitely still simmering too.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Happy 100th Birthday, Gene Kelly!
It's the centennial birthday of Eugene Curran Kelly, known affectionately as Gene. The landmark dancer, choreographer, singer, actor, director, and producer was a Pittsburgh native. His alma mater, University of Pittsburgh, marked the occasion by giving umbrellas to their 3,000+ incoming freshmen and having them dance on the lawn.
It was a sunny day here today, no rain in sight, but that didn't stop our family from singing and dancing in the rain in our hearts...and watching the celebrated movie on video.
Gene Kelly is one of my favorite screen actors of all time. I've written numerous reviews of his movies from the 1940s and 50s, but I saved Singin' in the Rain for today: the classic 1952 film he co-directed, choreographed and starred in. Here's my take on the best movie musical of all time.
And here's a high-definition video clip of the joyous and always memorable title sequence.
Happy Birthday, Gene!
It was a sunny day here today, no rain in sight, but that didn't stop our family from singing and dancing in the rain in our hearts...and watching the celebrated movie on video.
Gene Kelly is one of my favorite screen actors of all time. I've written numerous reviews of his movies from the 1940s and 50s, but I saved Singin' in the Rain for today: the classic 1952 film he co-directed, choreographed and starred in. Here's my take on the best movie musical of all time.
And here's a high-definition video clip of the joyous and always memorable title sequence.
Happy Birthday, Gene!
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Writing to Elgar
The family is on the way home (yay!) and I've spent this ultra quiet Saturday gardening and cleaning. In this last bit of time to myself, I'm trying to dive into some writing...specifically working on my mid-grade fairytale again. No, I didn't finish all the work I needed to do during these past couple of days, but enough to give myself a little writing break.
Reading over the manuscript yesterday -- the back story that's not quite complete and the first three chapters I wrote in January/February -- I have to say this. I like it! (Whew!) Taking two months away from the project has been really hard, and I'm still not sure how the summer is shaping up and if I'll have any significant time to devote to writing it again, but oh, I've missed these characters and this story. Now that I've dipped my toes back into the project, I guess I can call it a WIP again (work in progress)...
The other thing that's making me smile is how much I associate listening to Elgar with writing on this manuscript. I wonder if other writers do this -- have a particular composer or piece of work that seems to just "go" with the writing on a particular project? My whole winter was steeped in Elgar, especially the Enigma Variations (though I am starting to love some of his other work dearly too) and that's when I was doing most of the writing on this story. I associate Elgar so much with this story that I have named the fictional river near my castle the River Elgar.
Alas, I had to return a couple of the Enigma versions I've been enjoying to the library, but I now own a couple as well (okay, three to be precise). Today I dug out the Bernstein, which I tend to listen to less than the others. It had been a while since I'd played it, so I found myself puzzling anew (ah, the great mysteries of life) why Bernstein slowed the tempo down in the Nimrod movement so drastically. Seven minutes! As my husband pointed out when he first heard it, it sounds like a slow sunrise. He's right, it does. And while I don't find it totally absurd as some music critics do -- there's something so majestic and beautiful in the music that it manages to find its way through even this drastic sort of re-interpretation -- I confess I am completely puzzled as to why he did it. Grandstanding? Playing? Experimenting? Or did he really think there was something inherent in the music itself that called for this kind of slow, languorous, cat-like stretching? The question has me really curious. I suspect it always will.
Writing to Elgar again...no matter what conductor, it just feels good. Among other things, it's helping provide me with continuity of mood when I dive into this story, and that's no small thing considering how long it's been since I've worked on it.
Reading over the manuscript yesterday -- the back story that's not quite complete and the first three chapters I wrote in January/February -- I have to say this. I like it! (Whew!) Taking two months away from the project has been really hard, and I'm still not sure how the summer is shaping up and if I'll have any significant time to devote to writing it again, but oh, I've missed these characters and this story. Now that I've dipped my toes back into the project, I guess I can call it a WIP again (work in progress)...
The other thing that's making me smile is how much I associate listening to Elgar with writing on this manuscript. I wonder if other writers do this -- have a particular composer or piece of work that seems to just "go" with the writing on a particular project? My whole winter was steeped in Elgar, especially the Enigma Variations (though I am starting to love some of his other work dearly too) and that's when I was doing most of the writing on this story. I associate Elgar so much with this story that I have named the fictional river near my castle the River Elgar.
Alas, I had to return a couple of the Enigma versions I've been enjoying to the library, but I now own a couple as well (okay, three to be precise). Today I dug out the Bernstein, which I tend to listen to less than the others. It had been a while since I'd played it, so I found myself puzzling anew (ah, the great mysteries of life) why Bernstein slowed the tempo down in the Nimrod movement so drastically. Seven minutes! As my husband pointed out when he first heard it, it sounds like a slow sunrise. He's right, it does. And while I don't find it totally absurd as some music critics do -- there's something so majestic and beautiful in the music that it manages to find its way through even this drastic sort of re-interpretation -- I confess I am completely puzzled as to why he did it. Grandstanding? Playing? Experimenting? Or did he really think there was something inherent in the music itself that called for this kind of slow, languorous, cat-like stretching? The question has me really curious. I suspect it always will.
Writing to Elgar again...no matter what conductor, it just feels good. Among other things, it's helping provide me with continuity of mood when I dive into this story, and that's no small thing considering how long it's been since I've worked on it.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Poetry Friday: The Swing in Everything
I came across this poem I wrote back in January when our
whole family was in love with a Duke Ellington recording from the library. It
made me smile. And it made me realize anew how important music is in my life.
We dance around
the kitchen
to the Duke’s
jazzy swing.
I love just
how he heard
the swing
in everything.
I love the
way he made
new tunes
but still let
old tunes sing.
I love just
how Duke heard
the swing
in everything.
EMP 1/12
Music is a huge part of my life and my home. I hardly
realized how much until the past couple of days when my husband and daughter
have been traveling and I’ve been structuring my days completely around my own
schedule – an occurrence so rare and bizarre that I almost had forgotten how to
do it.
Two days on my own – I’ve been balancing work, play, rest
(or trying to) and also balancing sound and silence. I’ve been basking in
morning quiet time, just me by the window with my cup of tea and my Bible and
prayer book and a couple of other books I’m reading. In the
stillness, so rare, I notice all sorts of things speaking to my heart.
In the afternoons I’ve been working – grading, writing,
housecleaning – and that’s when I crank the music. It’s mostly been classical
and jazz, and oh, how grateful I am for these gems. Benny Goodman playing
anything, Yo-Yo Ma playing Vivaldi and Franck and Morricone and Gershwin
preludes, Elgar’s Enigma Variations (of course) and Michael Tilson Thomas
playing Gershwin’s Second Rhapsody – okay, it’s been a very Gershwin kind of
week.
Music tends to chase us all over the house even in our busy,
crowded days – I’m forever putting something in the player. And if I don’t, the
sweet girl will. And my husband when he’s home, especially when he’s cooking on
Saturday mornings. But it’s been listening to it on my own these past couple of
days that I realize how much it upholds and encourages me, lends essence and
structure and sweetness to my days, helps inspire energy when I’m tired or
calming space when I’m wired.
So grateful for music, for the swing in everything.
The Poetry Friday round-up is at Write.Sketch.Repeat.
Monday, May 07, 2012
Birthday Celebration, Gardening and Gershwin
My dear husband celebrated his birthday on Friday. He took the day off, which gave us the morning together as a family before the sweet girl and I trundled off to homeschool group for the afternoon. Then dear friends took her home for the evening, and he and I actually went out to dinner. I'm still reeling from D. having a whole day off (can't remember the last time that's happened!) and the two of us going on a date (can't remember the last time we were able to do that either). It was a lovely day.
The rest of the weekend was lovely too in many ways, though I've been battling tiredness and a sinus headache.
We got our plot assignment in the community gardens. A cause for great excitement! We loved our gardening project last year and couldn't wait to get started again. We planted a few seedlings and also some seeds. Waiting to see what comes up...one of my favorite parts of gardening.
It was also a very Gershwin weekend. He's been one of my favorite composers since I was sixteen, and the sweet girl has grown up knowing and loving his music, but we've been learning more about him because he's our composer of the month in this final month of school. We showed her the ballet from American in Paris (which she loved) and spent a good bit of this afternoon (when we weren't out gardening) listening to the New York Rhapsody. No, not the Rhapsody in Blue, but a much less known Rhapsody Gershwin did later. It's sometimes called Rhapsody in Rivets. It sounds deliciously familiar -- so Gershwiny -- and yet new too. A great combination.
So many more blessings I could recount from the past few days...including some amazing God moments in our community. Oddly, following such a moving and gratitude filled few days, I am feeling a bit flat and not ready to face the new week...though I suspect that's got more to do with not feeling well than anything else.
At any rate, the new week is here, so onward I go!
The rest of the weekend was lovely too in many ways, though I've been battling tiredness and a sinus headache.
We got our plot assignment in the community gardens. A cause for great excitement! We loved our gardening project last year and couldn't wait to get started again. We planted a few seedlings and also some seeds. Waiting to see what comes up...one of my favorite parts of gardening.
It was also a very Gershwin weekend. He's been one of my favorite composers since I was sixteen, and the sweet girl has grown up knowing and loving his music, but we've been learning more about him because he's our composer of the month in this final month of school. We showed her the ballet from American in Paris (which she loved) and spent a good bit of this afternoon (when we weren't out gardening) listening to the New York Rhapsody. No, not the Rhapsody in Blue, but a much less known Rhapsody Gershwin did later. It's sometimes called Rhapsody in Rivets. It sounds deliciously familiar -- so Gershwiny -- and yet new too. A great combination.
So many more blessings I could recount from the past few days...including some amazing God moments in our community. Oddly, following such a moving and gratitude filled few days, I am feeling a bit flat and not ready to face the new week...though I suspect that's got more to do with not feeling well than anything else.
At any rate, the new week is here, so onward I go!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Hark! The Herald Angels Sing
A blessed Christmas to all!
Here's the wonderful hymn from Charles Wesley, one of my favorite bards of Christmas...
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th’angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”
Christ, by highest Heav’n adored;
Christ the everlasting Lord;
Late in time, behold Him come,
Offspring of a virgin’s womb.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail th’incarnate Deity,
Pleased with us in flesh to dwell,
Jesus our Emmanuel.
Hail the heav’nly Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Ris’n with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die.
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Come, Desire of nations, come,
Fix in us Thy humble home;
Rise, the woman’s conqu’ring Seed,
Bruise in us the serpent’s head.
Now display Thy saving power,
Ruined nature now restore;
Now in mystic union join
Thine to ours, and ours to Thine.
Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface,
Stamp Thine image in its place:
Second Adam from above,
Reinstate us in Thy love.
Let us Thee, though lost, regain,
Thee, the Life, the inner man:
O, to all Thyself impart,
Formed in each believing heart.
Here's the wonderful hymn from Charles Wesley, one of my favorite bards of Christmas...
Hark! The herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!”
Joyful, all ye nations rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th’angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”
Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”
Christ, by highest Heav’n adored;
Christ the everlasting Lord;
Late in time, behold Him come,
Offspring of a virgin’s womb.
Veiled in flesh the Godhead see;
Hail th’incarnate Deity,
Pleased with us in flesh to dwell,
Jesus our Emmanuel.
Hail the heav’nly Prince of Peace!
Hail the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings,
Ris’n with healing in His wings.
Mild He lays His glory by,
Born that man no more may die.
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to give them second birth.
Come, Desire of nations, come,
Fix in us Thy humble home;
Rise, the woman’s conqu’ring Seed,
Bruise in us the serpent’s head.
Now display Thy saving power,
Ruined nature now restore;
Now in mystic union join
Thine to ours, and ours to Thine.
Adam’s likeness, Lord, efface,
Stamp Thine image in its place:
Second Adam from above,
Reinstate us in Thy love.
Let us Thee, though lost, regain,
Thee, the Life, the inner man:
O, to all Thyself impart,
Formed in each believing heart.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Happy Land
At the end of this hard week, how wonderful was it to open up a musical treasure from the library hold shelf? This morning we played songs from Happy Land: Musical Tributes to Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was entranced as these wonderful songs (all of them referenced in the Little House books) rolled out of the player, some of them sounding just like I imagined them sounding when played by Pa Ingalls. A few I know from other sources, but many I only know because of "hearing" Pa play and sing them in the books.
Dancing in the kitchen to "Arkansas Traveler" with my husband at lunchtime, inventing harmonies for the "Sweet By and By" while listening with the sweet girl this morning...I just really needed this today. Beautiful fiddle music, beautiful bright bits of Americana.
You can see the disc I'm talking about here.
And oh, I needed the old-time hymns especially. Doesn't this lyric make your heart soar?
To our bountiful Father above, we will offer the tribute of praise;
For the glorious gift of His Love, and the blessings that hallow our days.
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
(Joseph Philbrick Webster - tune; Sanford Fillmore Bennett - words)
Dancing in the kitchen to "Arkansas Traveler" with my husband at lunchtime, inventing harmonies for the "Sweet By and By" while listening with the sweet girl this morning...I just really needed this today. Beautiful fiddle music, beautiful bright bits of Americana.
You can see the disc I'm talking about here.
And oh, I needed the old-time hymns especially. Doesn't this lyric make your heart soar?
To our bountiful Father above, we will offer the tribute of praise;
For the glorious gift of His Love, and the blessings that hallow our days.
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
In the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore.
(Joseph Philbrick Webster - tune; Sanford Fillmore Bennett - words)
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Christmas Music Review (from the Epi Archives): John Michael Talbot's "The Birth of Jesus"
Some fellow reviewers at Epinions have been posting their lists of favorite Christmas songs. I haven't had time to join in the write-off yet, but I've found myself contemplating some of my favorites...and of course, at this time of year, I'm doing a lot of listening to Christmas music!
Scrolling through some of my old music reviews at Epinions, I found this review I posted in 2005 of John Michael Talbot's "The Birth of Jesus."
Whether you're familiar with Talbot's wonderful work or not, this is truly a special recording. As I wrote in the review: "He knows how to arrange music so that the essence of the song shines through. The sensibility I get from this album is of dark bare limbs of gnarled and ancient trees illuminated by bright, contemporary street lights on a snow-hushed winter street."
Yes. Reading this review over today, I found myself wanting to share about this music again. This is a recording I have loved so deeply over the years, one that has moved me time and again to worshipful prayer and praise during the Advent and Christmas seasons.
Scrolling through some of my old music reviews at Epinions, I found this review I posted in 2005 of John Michael Talbot's "The Birth of Jesus."
Whether you're familiar with Talbot's wonderful work or not, this is truly a special recording. As I wrote in the review: "He knows how to arrange music so that the essence of the song shines through. The sensibility I get from this album is of dark bare limbs of gnarled and ancient trees illuminated by bright, contemporary street lights on a snow-hushed winter street."
Yes. Reading this review over today, I found myself wanting to share about this music again. This is a recording I have loved so deeply over the years, one that has moved me time and again to worshipful prayer and praise during the Advent and Christmas seasons.
Sunday, November 01, 2009
For All the Saints, Who From Their Labor Rest
I so love this hymn.
You can hear it here, with a full choir and organ.
The text is by William How, the glorious music by Ralph Vaughn Williams (whose music I've listened to for much of this day). God's gift of music through Ralph Vaughn Williams is yet one more reason I am thankful for the Anglican tradition.
O blest communion, fellowship divine!/We feebly struggle/they in glory shine/all are one in Thee/for all are Thine./Alleluia! Alleluia!
A blessed All Saints Day to you!
You can hear it here, with a full choir and organ.
The text is by William How, the glorious music by Ralph Vaughn Williams (whose music I've listened to for much of this day). God's gift of music through Ralph Vaughn Williams is yet one more reason I am thankful for the Anglican tradition.
O blest communion, fellowship divine!/We feebly struggle/they in glory shine/all are one in Thee/for all are Thine./Alleluia! Alleluia!
A blessed All Saints Day to you!
Thursday, October 29, 2009
"Comfort Food" Movies
I've been thinking a lot about comfort food this week as I begin to make some of my favorite fall recipes. Suddenly we're cooking and baking with lots of orange, from pumpkin to sweet potatoes! Autumn is a time for squash soups, for thick, warm breads, for butter and cinnamon and apples.
Yesterday the sweet girl and I had a poetry tea party (I guess we could call these "poet-teas"?) the first of many, I hope. We'd baked our traditional pumpkin-butterscotch cookies the day before, and had some of those along with tea in thin white cups (she wanted peppermint with good dollops of milk from the little pumpkin-shaped cream pitcher, and I had decaf British Blend, my current favorite) all on an autumn-patterned cloth. We read fall-like poetry and just other poems that struck our fancy: Robert Louis Stevenson, David McCord, Christina Rossetti, William Blake.
I've been feeling extra tired this week. So last night, with D. having another late night at work and the sweet girl in bed, I crashed on the couch in front of one of my favorite "comfort food movies" -- The Sound of Music.
You know what I mean by comfort food movies -- the kind of movies that are so deliciously familiar that you feel like you're eating your mom's mashed potatoes or your favorite homemade mac and cheese. It's nourishing but not surprising to your palette -- you know just how it's going to taste, and it always feels great going down. You know it was made with love. You know other people love it too. Not twists or turns in the story recipe, which you know by heart, so it sometimes makes you sleepy (and you can probably quote from it in your sleep too). That kind of comfort food movie.
The Sound of Music is one of my favorite such movies. Besides the story, acting and singing (all of which I love) I love the feelings it evokes for me. I always remember the wonderful evening, oh so many years ago, when the film first burst onto my consciousness. I went with my dad and older sister to see it on a big screen at the Byrd Theater in Richmond. The Byrd was a majestic movie house from a bygone age of film-going, and it forever ruined me for utilitarian multiplexes. It had ornate decorations and red velvet seating, a "mighty wurlitzer" organ, and a lobby with a shimmering chandelier. I still recall how stunned I felt when we stepped back into that lobby at intermission (yes, a real intermission with an orchestral interlude). Remember what happens right before the intermission? Maria has just packed her bag so she can run away to the abbey, away from the dashing retired naval captain whose love she'd never sought but whose love she nevertheless finds herself longing for, and as she leaves she casts one last yearning look around the huge entrance-hall to the von Trapp family mansion. You know, the one with the shimmering chandelier. When we stepped out of the film world and into the lobby of the Byrd, I am pretty certain I just stood there and gawked. I was sure somehow the movie world had extended into my real nine-year-old life and I was just plain dazzled.
So every time I watch The Sound of Music, that memory watches with me. But so many other memories come along for the ride too. After seeing it on the big screen, I watched it for many years in its choppily edited version on network television. I still know all the places where the t.v. version made cuts, because I still find myself startled when the actors and actresses move into those bits of speech or song, as though they snuck them in as extras when I wasn't looking. After all these years, it still feels like bonus material.
And of course, I know the songs by heart. My sister and I used to sing along with the record album...yes, I did say album...and I know Julie Andrews' inflections and phrasings so well I tend to note the places where she pauses for breath. I also know all the places where she soars on the high notes, so I can adjust the volume on the remote control accordingly (since we're spread out on one floor, late-night movies tend to keep other people in the house awake, like tired seven year olds who should be sleeping, so I'm careful with volume).
Did I mention that Christopher Plummer was my first "movie crush"? I still melt into a puddle over the love scene in the gazebo, even though I've long since read and heard the things Andrews and Plummer have said about the hilariousness of that shot, their unprofessional bout of giggles, and how Robert Wise basically gave in and shot it in semi-darkness in an attempt to calm things down. He liked the silhouette so well he decided to keep it.
And I'm amazed that I still find things to notice in the movie that I've never really noticed before, like the shot that pans upward at the wedding, focusing in on the beautiful church altar, then swings to the bell-towers as we note the passing of time, then seems to hover in mid-air as we find our focus on a nazi flag and a square full of goose-stepping soldiers. I got shivers last night seeing that, noting how quickly and powerfully our attention was moved from the altar to the flag, and how that seemed to symbolize, in just a few seconds, exactly how Germany had swallowed up Austria. Only of course, not swallowed it up entirely, as we see in subsequent scenes of quiet courage.
What a great movie. What a great week for comfort food.
Yesterday the sweet girl and I had a poetry tea party (I guess we could call these "poet-teas"?) the first of many, I hope. We'd baked our traditional pumpkin-butterscotch cookies the day before, and had some of those along with tea in thin white cups (she wanted peppermint with good dollops of milk from the little pumpkin-shaped cream pitcher, and I had decaf British Blend, my current favorite) all on an autumn-patterned cloth. We read fall-like poetry and just other poems that struck our fancy: Robert Louis Stevenson, David McCord, Christina Rossetti, William Blake.
I've been feeling extra tired this week. So last night, with D. having another late night at work and the sweet girl in bed, I crashed on the couch in front of one of my favorite "comfort food movies" -- The Sound of Music.
You know what I mean by comfort food movies -- the kind of movies that are so deliciously familiar that you feel like you're eating your mom's mashed potatoes or your favorite homemade mac and cheese. It's nourishing but not surprising to your palette -- you know just how it's going to taste, and it always feels great going down. You know it was made with love. You know other people love it too. Not twists or turns in the story recipe, which you know by heart, so it sometimes makes you sleepy (and you can probably quote from it in your sleep too). That kind of comfort food movie.
The Sound of Music is one of my favorite such movies. Besides the story, acting and singing (all of which I love) I love the feelings it evokes for me. I always remember the wonderful evening, oh so many years ago, when the film first burst onto my consciousness. I went with my dad and older sister to see it on a big screen at the Byrd Theater in Richmond. The Byrd was a majestic movie house from a bygone age of film-going, and it forever ruined me for utilitarian multiplexes. It had ornate decorations and red velvet seating, a "mighty wurlitzer" organ, and a lobby with a shimmering chandelier. I still recall how stunned I felt when we stepped back into that lobby at intermission (yes, a real intermission with an orchestral interlude). Remember what happens right before the intermission? Maria has just packed her bag so she can run away to the abbey, away from the dashing retired naval captain whose love she'd never sought but whose love she nevertheless finds herself longing for, and as she leaves she casts one last yearning look around the huge entrance-hall to the von Trapp family mansion. You know, the one with the shimmering chandelier. When we stepped out of the film world and into the lobby of the Byrd, I am pretty certain I just stood there and gawked. I was sure somehow the movie world had extended into my real nine-year-old life and I was just plain dazzled.
So every time I watch The Sound of Music, that memory watches with me. But so many other memories come along for the ride too. After seeing it on the big screen, I watched it for many years in its choppily edited version on network television. I still know all the places where the t.v. version made cuts, because I still find myself startled when the actors and actresses move into those bits of speech or song, as though they snuck them in as extras when I wasn't looking. After all these years, it still feels like bonus material.
And of course, I know the songs by heart. My sister and I used to sing along with the record album...yes, I did say album...and I know Julie Andrews' inflections and phrasings so well I tend to note the places where she pauses for breath. I also know all the places where she soars on the high notes, so I can adjust the volume on the remote control accordingly (since we're spread out on one floor, late-night movies tend to keep other people in the house awake, like tired seven year olds who should be sleeping, so I'm careful with volume).
Did I mention that Christopher Plummer was my first "movie crush"? I still melt into a puddle over the love scene in the gazebo, even though I've long since read and heard the things Andrews and Plummer have said about the hilariousness of that shot, their unprofessional bout of giggles, and how Robert Wise basically gave in and shot it in semi-darkness in an attempt to calm things down. He liked the silhouette so well he decided to keep it.
And I'm amazed that I still find things to notice in the movie that I've never really noticed before, like the shot that pans upward at the wedding, focusing in on the beautiful church altar, then swings to the bell-towers as we note the passing of time, then seems to hover in mid-air as we find our focus on a nazi flag and a square full of goose-stepping soldiers. I got shivers last night seeing that, noting how quickly and powerfully our attention was moved from the altar to the flag, and how that seemed to symbolize, in just a few seconds, exactly how Germany had swallowed up Austria. Only of course, not swallowed it up entirely, as we see in subsequent scenes of quiet courage.
What a great movie. What a great week for comfort food.
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