We Wait for Change…

…when we should be agents of change. We wish for rescue when we should be out seeking ways to aid others. We huddle fearfully in the late summer, already conscious that the autumn ahead will lead inevitably to winter’s dormancy or killing frost, when what we could be doing is plotting the way to make use of the transition to position ourselves to take fuller advantage of the ripening and plenitude ahead.digital illustrationWe are, after all, only human. But the exemplary people of generations past have proved, and those of our own time are still showing, that as long as we exist to worry about them the ages and seasons, the events and goings-on do indeed go on, cycle and change, and that if we choose to do so—if we determine to do so and act on it—we can make the changes better and the growth so much the more meaningful and joyful. If we wait for change, it will happen, all right, but it will happen however and whenever the universe or others in it decide. Ours is the calling to engage in the world, no matter how intimidating it is, and move toward what we desire. It may seem like plowing on foot through chin-deep snow, but trusting that there’s a thaw ahead and behind it, renewal, we can stay the course.digital illustrationAt the other end of it is potential that surpasses even our fondest, wildest imaginings, if we dare to move instead of lying waiting.

It’s interesting to me that I wrote the foregoing portions of this post a few weeks ago and set it aside for this very date, not knowing that it would follow immediately on the heels of my publishing my first book, something I’ve longed to do for years but never had the nerve until now. Funny how we sometimes put things in motion without even realizing what we’ve done; it’s a saving grace of our race, I think. O happy day, when we stumble into our dreams because we kept seeking them despite all sense!

Only a Dreamscape will Do

It’s my big sister’s birthday. Granted that she’s already gotten to have more of them than I have, I still wish her masses more birthdays, and not just so she’ll set a good example for me to follow. She’s done that all along, and though I’ve been imperfect at best in living up to her fabulosity and smartitude and funny-tations and whatnot, I’m still counting on her to continue the kindly gesture for ages to come. Having an older sister like her is like going to see a pretty view of the landscape and discovering that all the landscapes along the way are connected into an equally pretty, endlessly inviting prospect full of breezes, candy floss clouds, sunlight, streams, and sweet wildflowers. If I could give her all of this as a birthday gift, it might suffice.photo montageShe’s no billionaire, but she seems to know how to live well and build happiness around her remarkably well, so unless I come into billions myself I might have trouble finding her a gift that’ll knock her socks off properly. Guess I’ll have to settle for loving her to pieces (all of them, hopefully, remaining firmly attached to each other as they should be), admiring her immensely (and that’s not a crack about my weight, wink-wink), and giving her the same old big, shiny nothing that I give her every year (though it’s always tied up with a massive bow of plots for sisterly laughter), wrapped up in good wishes and the promise of a paltry but delicious dinner in her honor when I finally get to see her again. The requisite amount of good chocolate included, of course.

Happy Birthday! Encore, encore!

Sorrow, Begone! Morning will Come Again

photo diptychTo Rest in Peace
The night is long and still I cannot sleep
For fear the dawn will steal what I would keep
When hope and restlessness have wrestled till
The willow near my bedroom windowsill
Bends nearer down to say she’ll weep with me,
One generation to the next, poor tree–
The night will surely pass, and so will sorrow,
Yes, just as death’s outlasted by tomorrow,
So let me sleep, O grief, or let me fly now,
Over the willow tree, rise up and die now–
For what’s this aching but forewarning cold
That what’s ahead is neither dross nor gold
Except it brings me closer by its cost
To endless morning, healed of what I’d lost.photoMy dear friends, this post was prepared some time ago because I knew it was going to be a busy day: a travel day for my husband and me on our return home from TMEA (the Texas Music Educators Association’s annual conference of well over 20,000 musicians, students and teachers). Not at all surprisingly, being surrounded by this musical ‘cloud of witnesses’ has made our thoughts turn to Eric Ericson and the many gifts he brought to the choral world over his long and storied career, and to my spouse’s and my lives as well, so we were talking about him as we walked home from a TMEA event late last night. So somehow, despite the sadness of it, it was not so shocking to waken this very morning to the news that he has died. He was, after all, 94 years old. But it seems to me that he was escorted out of this world on a wave of music, and that is only fitting for such a titan of choral culture. He will be missed by uncountable choirs of his musical offspring–and he left a song that will never stop resounding in our midst. Farewell and peace, Eric.