MUSIC TO MY EARS
27 Jan 2012 2 Comments
Indulge me a moment while I plagiarize a paragraph (or more) from a book that I am currently reading. I’m not really stealing it, but merely borrowing the words of the author and passing to you something that speaks for me what I might not have been able to put into words myself. So without copyright permission, without prior authorization, (I hope I don’t get sued) without so much as written correspondence asking permission, I attribute the following words and message from author, Anne Lamott, from her book Traveling Mercies, to be a truly beautiful and powerful description of how music and singing helped her to find the Holy Spirit within her.
Before I get into the meat of this story, I would like to set the background. Ms. Lamott is an exceptionally truthful writer who exposes the most private and intimate facets of her life; capturing her journey from her eclectic childhood and teen years, her relationship with drugs and alcohol, to the discovery of her spiritual center and her belief in God and Jesus Christ.
With the back ground set, come along and experience the profound impact that music has had in the author’s life. Nod your head knowingly at the connection between sharing your gift and love of music and the potential outcome music may have on another’s life; a collective chorus of voices finding those who search for something more…
Anne is in her thirties, pregnant, and most of the time high under the influence of drugs and alcohol; sick and searching. While on her walks through the weekend flea market in Marin City, Ca, she expresses that she is beckoned into the doorway of a church, St. Andrew Presbyterian, which she describes as a homely, impoverished, ramshackle building. But the music wafting out was so pretty that she would stop and listen.
She recalls her first association with the church as this, “I began stopping in at St. Andrew from time to time, standing in the doorway to listen to the songs. I couldn’t believe how run-down it was, with terrible linoleum that was brown and over shined, and plastic stained-glass windows. But it had a choir of five black women and one rather Amish-looking white man making all that glorious noise, and a congregation of thirty people or so, radiating kindness and warmth.”
“I went back to St. Andrew about once a month. No one tried to con me into sitting down or staying.”…and every other week they brought huge tubs of great food for the homeless families living at the shelter near the canal to the north. I loved this. But it was the singing that pulled me in and split me wide open.”
“Pulled me in and split me wide open”…Wow, what an awesome transformation for a human being…”Split me wide open”. The singing split her wide open!
She continues, “I could sing better here than I ever had before. As part of these people, even though I stayed in the doorway, I did not recognize my voice or know where it was coming from, but sometimes I felt like I could sing forever.”
“Eventually, a few months after I started coming, I took a seat in one of the folding chairs, off by myself. Then the singing enveloped me. It was furry and resonant, coming from everyone’s heart. There was no sense of performance or judgment, only that the music was breath and food.” “Something inside me that was stiff and rotting would feel soft and tender. Somehow the singing wore down all the boundaries and distinctions that kept me so isolated. Sitting there, standing with them (the congregation) to sing, sometimes so shaky and sick that I felt like I might tip over, I felt bigger than myself, like I was being taken care of, tricked into coming back to life.”
So there it is; one person’s account of how music and singing made her feel and drew her to her new church family. It didn’t matter the quality of the voices, the number of people in the pews or sitting on folding, plastic chairs, the wealth or lack of it of the congregation, the décor or condition of the building; it was the singing that brought this soul to its final destination with its creator. It simply brought her home and brought her healing.
I will leave it alone here for you to contemplate. Your voice can be the voice that brings a soul back from the brink of death into the light of life; breath and food, a voice that nudges a stiff and rotting flesh into something soft and tender; wearing down all boundaries that keep it isolated.
We’ll never know who is lurking in the doorway, or watching us from a distance. We’ll never know if our voice will be the one that makes the difference, allowing another to find her voice, so keep singing my friends, keep singing…
God’s blessings to all,
Dreama
CHAPTER II
31 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
As the Quest continues her voyage, I am finding myself in uncharted waters. It is only now, at this time in my life, am I consenting to walk through doors that I would normally have been too frightened to see what was on the other side. But now I can see that I have been being prepared; prepared to develop my talents and skills and am now ready to take the risk and expose the real me to the world.
I’ve prayed and listened. I’ve searched and written. I’ve practiced over and over and over. It’s been a process. It’s been a personal goal, and as I’ve heard it said, “If the mountain were smooth, you couldn’t climb it.” Well put, unknown author! Among my blessings, I count the mountains that need to be climbed. I’m happy that there have been hills and valleys in my life and some smoothing sailing along the way, but without the hills, without the challenge of the mountains, I wouldn’t have climbed.
So Chapter II unfolds and each day is a step up the mountain, doing the things that fulfill and make a difference in my life, and perhaps in the lives of others as well. Some days the music just flows and I can’t write fast enough. Some days, I just sit and hum and strum the guitar, but all the while the music plays in my head. The music flows from the master composer Himself, and reaches the ear of His servant.
Talents are a gift to be shared. They are to be honed and polished as fine silver and counted among your riches. Whatever talent you possess, share it. You may not be able to sing or write, cook or grow a garden, but you may be a good listener. You may possess a healing touch, and you just may be the volunteer driver taking an ill person for medical care.
Go through that door and see where your talents lead you! Go climb that mountain; the view is incredible!
With the talents of my co-singer, Mary Baker and musician, Stephen Perrillo, here is my local TV debut: http://pahomepage.com/palive-details?nxd_id=218856
Happy New Year,
Dreama
WABI-SABI
02 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
in POTPOURRI
The Japanese view of life embraced. A simple aesthetic
that grew stronger as inessentials were eliminated
and trimmed away.
-architect Tadao Ando
“What do you want?” , he asks.
“Peace, peace and tranquility”, she replies.
I’m becoming more reflective in my mid years. I think about almost everything and the importance of each thought; the importance of my surroundings, my existence in this world. I weigh each activity and determine if it’s just being busy, or being purposeful.
I can’t stop thinking and reflecting; thinking and reflecting and taking inventory of what is most precious to me; what really matters.
It’s not stuff. It’s not money. It’s not what I’ve accumulated and saved over time. It’s not that some things don’t have a sentimental value, but when I look around and survey the whatnots that I’ve collected over the years, I reconsider what importance they had from the beginning.
Photographs: Yes, definitely important; optical memories of occasions and persons that imprint the spatial part of my brain that holds the treasures of my past.
Furniture and collectibles : A few antique or semi-antique pieces handed down from grandparent to parent to me, that decorate the tabletops, bookcases, and walls; filling the once empty spaces and surfaces of my home with their decorative contribution. Add these to what my husband and I have purchased over time and the house becomes a home, the couch becomes a nest for rest, the dining table becomes a ledge to perch the food and drink consumed by those who gather at it’s perimeter and whom I love; making yet more memories.
Clothing: Where to begin? None of it really matters. I’ve even discarded my wedding dresses. Yes, I said dresses…there were two. Clothes that mark decades of fashion, years of ”figure transformations” and some styles that defy any reason for purchase. Closets and drawers that contain more than I will ever wear.
Wabi-Sabi. Wabi-Sabi. . . . I like the sound. I like even better it’s meaning; it’s translation as best as a westerner can understand it.
Sounds deep, but not too deep. Wabi-sabi’s roots lie in Zen Buddhism, which was brought from China to Japan by Eisai, a twelfth-century monk. Zen, with its principles of vast emptiness and nothing holy, stresses austerity, communion with nature, and above all, reverence for everyday life as the real path to enlightenment. Pared down to its barest essence, wabi-sabi is the Japanese art of finding beauty in imperfection and profundity in nature, of accepting the natural cycle of growth, decay, and death. It’s simple, slow, and uncluttered-and it reveres authenticity above all. It reminds us that we are all but transient beings on this planet-that our bodies as well as the material world around us are in the process of returning to the dust from which we came.
Wabi stems from the root wa, which refers to harmony, peace, tranquillity, and balance. Generally speaking, wabi had the original meaning of sad, desolate, and lonely, but poetically it has come to mean simple, unmaterialistic, humble by choice, and in tune with nature. Someone who is perfectly herself and never craves to be anything else would be described as wabi. A wabi person epitomizes Zen, which is to say, he or she is content with very little; free from greed, indolence, and anger; and understands the wisdom of rocks and grasshoppers.
I am fascinated by rocks. (Remember from my previous post, An Ugly Truth, that I keep a gray, jagged and ugly rock on my windowsill to remind me that the edges of my human nature to judge, need to be worn away by the hands of my creator, until I’m smoother and more loving). On my daily walks, I study the surfaces of rocks; their shape, color, size, imprints and age. They mark the history of the earth and hold the secrets of it’s formation. I’m truly in awe and can’t help but stare and question where did they come from and like a child I wonder, will God be making more?
Sabi by itself means “the bloom of time.” It connotes natural progression-tarnish, hoariness, rust-the extinguished gloss of that which once sparkled. It’s the understanding that beauty is fleeting.
Sabi things carry the burden of their years with dignity and grace: the chilly mottled surface of an oxidized silver bowl, the yielding gray of weathered wood, the elegant withering of a bereft autumn bough. An old car left in a field to rust, as it transforms from an eyesore into a part of the landscape, could be considered America’s contribution to the evolution of sabi. An abandoned barn, as it collapses in on itself, holds this mystique.
Over time, the patina of my life is evident on the surface of my skin and the lines that define the passage of time on my face reveal the joy and sorrow that I carry in my heart, and as time peels away the layers of clutter that I wear, I choose to be free of greed, indolence and anger becoming the person content to be herself.
“What do you want”, he asks.
“Wabi Sabi”, she replies.
FOR EVERY SEASON
01 Nov 2011 Leave a Comment
in POTPOURRI
I’m feeling a little rusty these days as I’ve not been putting my thoughts down on paper or in WordPress. I’ve written a few songs, but got away from daily blogging and The Quest has been adrift without her captain. I apologize to my shipmates. I’ve been rehearsing with my band the song, Turn, Turn, Turn, by The Byrds, and thinking about the many turns that life takes. I’ve asked the members of the group to provide pictures from their “early years” so that I can put together a video collage and we’ve all had a good laugh as we looked at the changes in our faces, bodies, hair (or lack of in some cases), clothing, weight, etc., as we’ve matured over the years.
I look at the pictures of my kids and grand kids and realize that I’m on the road or the expressway of life and like the Corvette that zooms by me in the passing zone; the seasons likewise are rapidly going by.
Without realizing it, POOF ! Another year, another decade, another season has passed. Did I even enjoy it? Did I live in the moment? Did I embrace what was going on all around me, or did I merely keep my nose to the grind stone and not observe what was right under my nose? Did I enjoy my childhood? I’m pretty sure I did. Did I discover my identity in my teen years, including the heart ache that comes from self-doubt and insecurities; yet breathlessly yearning for something more with the recognition of my budding womanhood? Partially. Did I realize my talents and set goals for a fantastically exotic and fulfilling life? Well, I had dreams but I was lousy at setting goals. I more or less had visions of what I thought my life would be, but hadn’t a clue how to make it happen; so I often found myself flying by the seat of my pants and catching up to the consequences of my choices. I don’t think I’m alone here. I envy those who have a plan, stick to it and accomplish almost everything they set out to do. I’m not just referring to the ones who focused on education and career, but those who broke out of the mold, took risks, and created a life beyond the borders of our community. I assume they are now living the fantastically exotic life that I once thought would be mine.
An impatient college dropout, I married young, lived in Germany for a year, crossed the ocean again, moved to the desert, had two kids and divorced soon after the infamous 7 year anniversary. Another chapter over. POOF! Where did that time go? Then the next many years I spent raising my brood, working my tail off so I could afford to give them a nice life and looking for Mr. Right; whom I did eventually find. POOF! Twenty years gone…was I there?
Childhood memories, scholastic experiences, marriage, the birth of children, the undertaking of new assignments, the passing of beloved parents, discovering ones self as the years unfold are all a progression of this woman’s life. I only wish that I had photographed each moment, each precious drop of kindness, every smile, every tear, permanently marking the facets of my experiences and memories to open like a well-worn scrapbook when I need a reminder of what I’ve gained and learned along the way.
Oh, I know I’m talking like I have amnesia, but sometimes I realize that I’ve not always been present in my life, and it’s been MY life; and now it’s more important than ever that I enjoy the seasons that are left, because the other ones are never coming back no matter how many times I click my heels together.
Ecclesiastes 3
There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens:
2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.
Turn, Turn, Turn….
Dreama
HIATUS
17 Aug 2011 Leave a Comment
in POTPOURRI
HIATUS: a lull, pause, break, gap, space, interval, interruption…time away. That’s me, Dreama, I’ve been away. Well not really away. Not on a vacation. Not out-of-town on business. Just away. Away from writing. Away from connecting with others. Away from the helm of The Quest.
I looked at my last post and realized that it was in June. In my real life you may recall that my husband and I have a restaurant and a catering business, and wow have we been busy this summer! I shouldn’t complain, business is good. Good for us, our employees, our wallet (that makes paying the bills easier), but not so good for the motivation or inspiration to create and write, to think and dream, to keep the ship afloat.
Every weekend has been filled with catering parties and that entails a lot of hard work. Buying supplies, shopping, prepping food, preparing lists, finalizing arrangements and menus with clients, visiting the catering location, scheduling staff, packing items, loading items onto our trailer, van and other vehicles, unloading, setting up, serving, cleaning up, packing up, traveling, and unloading back at home base. Ready… set… go…sometimes 3 parties in one weekend; prepared and served at your location, delivered at your location or ready to pick up. I’m pooped just writing this all down.
I want to acknowledge what a great staff we have. They’ve worked their buns off and represented our business professionally in our community. We’ve worked side by side, 7 days a week and sweated through some of the hottest, muggiest, summer heat or rain that we’ve seen in some time. Our college bound employees now have some extra money to meet their expenses. Our full-time staff have extra money put away for the holidays, and our customers had some fantastic parties with wonderful food!
It’s been a good season, but I’m looking forward to climbing back on board The Quest to see where she sails.
What have the months of summer brought for you? I hope it’s been terrific and please share your experiences with us!
Dreama
To Friend or not to Friend, that is the question.
11 Jun 2011 Leave a Comment
in CULTURE
By now most of us are familiar with the story behind the creation of the mega social media platform, Facebook; or at the very least you may be a member of Facebook . Who can say where one finds such brilliance to launch such a tremendously successful, technologically engaging endeavor? Do the stars and planets align at just the right time, or is it just plain luck as offered by Seneca, who wrote (just before not very efficiently killing himself), that “Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.” Well?
This got me thinking. My intention today is to blog my thoughts about Facebook, but then I stumble on this quote and my investigative nature wants to know more about Seneca; Lucius Annaeus Seneca. I wanted to write about the personal impact that Facebook has on people like me and the global connectivity that this networking service provides, but what I found is that Wikipedia does a far better job at providing all the intricate details on Facebook. From its inception to the statistics that confirm its historical impact on the world; if you want the facts… just hit this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Facebook and you’ll be there.
So, as usual, I find myself going down another search engine bunny trail but one that provides much more interest to me.
Wikipedia provides the following:
Lucius Annaeus Seneca (often known simply as Seneca, or Seneca the Younger) (ca. 4 BCE – 65 CE) was a Roman Stoic philosopher, statesman, dramatist, and in one workhumorist, of the Silver Age of Latin literature. He was tutor and later advisor to emperor Nero. He was later forced to commit suicide for complicity in the Pisonian conspiracy to assassinate this last of the Julio-Claudian emperors; however, he may have been innocent.[1][2] His father was Seneca the Elder and his older brother was Gallio.
That part about being forced to commit suicide really grabbed my attention!
I find it unimaginable that one can order another person to commit suicide; that punishment for a crime involving an alleged conspiracy would result in a sentence that you kill yourself? Nero must have had mucho power! Ironically, Seneca had once been one of Nero’s trusted advisers.
Where was I when ancient history and the Roman Empire was being taught or lectured in school? Why didn’t I find this fascinating then? One word, boys.
Back to Seneca…
Seneca was a popular philosopher and a renowned essayist who wrote a lot about tragedy, moral issues and satire. His influence was evident in the writings of other medieval authors of his time who often included him as a character in their own works. A self-professed stoic who had a weakness to engage in affairs with married women, stretching the boundaries of his teachings on restraint and self-discipline. Later, in the early Christian church, he was characterized as a “humanist saint”. This information presents me with an image of a man who would rather have you do as he wrote, but not as he lived. I’m conflicted with the persona he created versus the true nature of his character; a credible, fascinating philosopher, statesmen and writer, victim to the debauchery and excess of Roman society?
Much like the writings of the prophet, King Solomon, who in the book of Proverbs desires to provide instruction, wisdom and insight regarding prudent behavior, Seneca also has MANY pearls of philosophical quotes attributed to his name; such as: “A man’s as miserable as he thinks”, “As long as you live, keep learning how to live”, “Life, if lived well, is long enough”, and my favorite, “There is no delight in owning anything unshared”.
How true Seneca, how true! If only the two could have met, perhaps Solomon could have advised our Seneca on the virtues and rewards of living a moral life.
And now the bunny trail ends, or is it just beginning? A new quest for knowledge and enrichment for the soul. I wish I could “friend” Seneca, Plato, Aristotle and Solomon. I wonder if they’d “friend” me back?
CRAZY DAYS OF SUMMER
02 Jun 2011 Leave a Comment
in FAMILY
I recall the song lyrics,
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Those days of soda and pretzels and beer
Roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer
Dust off the sun and moon and sing a song of cheer…
You’ll wish that summer could always be here
You’ll wish that summer could always be here
-Nat King Cole
As a child, I remember watching and singing along with Mitch Miller as my family gathered around our black and white television. We watched the bouncing ball leap from word to word and sang enthusiastically as Mitch waved his a baton keeping his chorus and viewers in rhythm. Now, the hazy and lazy days of summer are all but a fond memory because the crazy days of summer have taken over. The Memorial holiday weekend marks for me and my husband the start of our busiest time of year! As restaurant owners and caterers there is little down time. Our customers can’t wait for their first long hot dog of the season; served at their favorite drive-in restaurant. Graduations, weddings and reunion dates fill our catering calendar well into July. There are orders to place, shopping to do, food to prepare, new staff to hire and train and a zillion other things that take precedence over just about everything else. Anyone who has ever worked in the food service industry will tell you it is a 24/7 occupation. The customers come first and service with a smile is the mantra!
Now I don’t want to seem like I’m complaining, because this business (with all its craziness) provides us with a nice living; and in this economic climate our fast food eatery is more successful than ever. So for that I am grateful. The seasonal catering helps pay the bills in the winter months when business slows down. What I do miss however, are the summer days of my childhood.
I was fortunate that my mom, like so many moms in the 50′s and 60′s, was a full-time homemaker. She was June Cleaver personified and my father truly did know best! My family was the one everyone else glimpsed at on TV. My parents loved the outdoors and took their brood camping as often as possible. When we weren’t packing the tent and supplies for a weekend adventure, we were picnicking in the yard, taking a ride “in the country” or swimming at a nearby lake.
Ladies, remember those swim caps with the ugly rubber flowers plastered to our skulls like some sort of Polynesian water-lily? Ouch… I can still feel my mother poking and pushing my curly head of hair under the cap and adjusting the chin strap so tight I thought my head would burst!
Awe the good old days; flaming marshmallows (dripping from sticks sharpened like weapons) into the campfire, catching fire flies (AKA lightning bugs) in mason or jelly jars, hand-me-down, musty sleeping bags with broken zippers and best of all blistering sunburns produced from slathering on baby oil and iodine! We were told to be in by dinner and expected to spend the rest of the time outside.
We counted out our pennies and walked or biked to the “corner store”(a mile or more away) to buy some candy cigarettes (subconsciously preparing many a child for their lifetime addiction) ice cream or whatever junk our money would buy. Most days our parents had no idea where we were or what we were doing. Freedom like that for a kid is gone for good 
Some of my best memories are nights spent at the Moonlight ” Five Dollar a Car Load” drive-in movie, dressed in my jammies and snacking on the goodies that mom packed; especially the Jiffy Pop Popcorn! We arrived way before nightfall so dad could drive from post to post trying to find a speaker that was not only attached but actually had volume. Before the show we’d watch the dancing hot dogs and candy on the screen, enticing the audience to the snack bar.
Mitch was 99 when he passed. He was quoted saying that when he played with his orchestra live, “you strip all the crapola away”. ”No editing, no re-takes”. I like that Mitch, and one day I too hope to strip all the crapola away. No editing my life, no re-takes, no do-overs, because it’s all live and it’s the only life I’ve got!
I hope to have some more lazy, hazy summer days and I hope you do to0!
Now back to the crazy….
Dreama
