Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
~Oliver Wendell Holmes
This daily inspiration (thank you, Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes!!!) arrived by e-mail this morning. I read it over at least three times before I sat back and let the words take hold inside my head. Once they took hold, I sat here and thought about how many times I have "turned off"--or maybe I haven't allowed myself to "turn on"--the music in my spirit. Why? Usually it is because I have allowed the clutter of the days to push the songs away. Now, I have enough where-with-all to know that when I invite music into my day, I sing. So why do I ever push the songs away?
Why? While I'm questioning things, a one-liner quotation that I keep on a shelf in my studio sneaks into my thoughts--"Ideas become real at the point of action." OK. That does it. This morning I choose to accept the invitation to let my thoughts sing, to let my ideas sing, to let my hands sing through creating. And so, here is one of the word-songs for today.
Yep - just yesterday, I awoke to a chilled breeze rushing in through my bedroom window (I keep that window rolled open ever so slightly to allow in nighttime breezes) and our landscape covered in snow--snow that looked like beautiful, creamy shaving cream. The song for yesterday was slow, comprised of deeper notes, calmer notes.
If the temperature is just right, they leave their brush-line perches and fly like little bottle rockets to the garden beds surrounding the two berry-laden shrubs that stand on either side of the front sidewalk. There, they begin an operatic performance. They dance alone or in pairs, they pick and pick at the mulched bed--finding precious berries that have dropped from the shrubs. They hop about, drunk with happiness. They fly from shrub to shrub to shrub, sometimes clutching branches that hang at an awkward angle, sometimes clutching branches that literally hang perpendicular to the ground. And they sing--beautifully they sing. No, it does not matter to them, the angle of the branch; they celebrate the day and they sing.
That was yesterday, when the temperatures were in the lower 30s in the morning, but by the end of the day, had risen into the 40s...and were predicted to rise even higher by today...go figure.
This morning...I awoke to a new song, a song of soft breezes, warmer breezes playing through that same window next to my side of the bed. Hmmmm...."A sure indicator of the promise of a good day," I think to myself before throwing back the comforter and greeting the day...and it doesn't look like I will be disappointed.
When I walk into the dining room, I stand at the front windows and take in the landscape. While grey rain clouds stretch from east to west across the upper skyline, green grass stretches in rolling waves across the lawn below. Sure, here and there, little blobs of shaving cream snow appear...but, mostly it is green lawn and trees and brush without a speck of snow lying on branches. The overnight rains have performed their magic, erasing the snow. This morning's song begins with a lightness, comprised of brisker notes, lilting notes.
Hang in there with me, I'm getting to the part where Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes' words arrived with a purpose for me today.
It is during these winter-going-into-the-promise-of-spring mornings that I find myself mesmerized by the birds that return to the brush line at the far end of our front lawn. I am mesmerized by all of the birds, but I am in love with the cardinals. The male and female cardinals return in force. They find their separate perches and sit, doing their bird yoga-zen thing for scores of minutes. Stately. Regal. Brilliant. They sit as if knowing they are performing for an audience.
If the temperature is just right, they leave their brush-line perches and fly like little bottle rockets to the garden beds surrounding the two berry-laden shrubs that stand on either side of the front sidewalk. There, they begin an operatic performance. They dance alone or in pairs, they pick and pick at the mulched bed--finding precious berries that have dropped from the shrubs. They hop about, drunk with happiness. They fly from shrub to shrub to shrub, sometimes clutching branches that hang at an awkward angle, sometimes clutching branches that literally hang perpendicular to the ground. And they sing--beautifully they sing. No, it does not matter to them, the angle of the branch; they celebrate the day and they sing. As their celebrations fill the air, their songs fill my soul. And so, I believe that today I choose to be like a cardinal celebrating the promise of Spring...I choose not to let the music die inside of me today. No, today, I sing.
