Reflections on the Nature of Music: A Composer’s Journal Entries September 10- 12 , 2005
Saturday, September 10
Windgarth House 10:15 p.m.
Walked to the Point with M. after dinner. The Big Dipper over the road, brilliant, clear, vibrant. At the Point, the Milky Way overhead, constellations arched around & above us. The sound of the waves below. The night crystalline, chilly - autumn. M. said: “There’s a bite in the air. A nip.” On the way back to Windgarth, the presence of perfume in the road. The strong fragrance of myrrh. “It’s Our Lady”, I said. It was only in that one spot, and we wondered if it were the fragrance of a nearby tree - but suddenly the fragrance dissolved, was gone. I told M. that I had had the same experience in the gardens, in town. We began speaking of the Desert Fathers, & I became warm, almost hot in spite of the chill in the air ...
Sunday, September 11
Windgarth 2:45 p.m.
Yesterday we went to the Amish, for cheese & bread, vegetables. Then we decided to go to the Amish cutting garden further down, on 414. A small & very friendly Amish girl met us there. A sign said any six flowers for one dollar, so we sent her out into the gardens. She brought back long stems of various flowers & $11 worth filled the back seat of our car with blooms. I filled the downstairs vase with some, & it is bursting with brightly coloured zinnia, gladiola, sprays of deep purple celosia & other treasures.
As I gaze at them, I think of our small Amish helper, in her simple lavender dress and white smock, surrounded by flowers taller than she; cheerfully bending slightly, to snip a stalk here and there, the sun behind her, lighting up her hair. The fields beyond. M. said: “Where’s the camera”, & I answered “it is within us.” Two smaller, barefoot children appeared from around the side of the big house. The smaller, a boy of about six, was carrying a flat cardboard box filled with various peppers. He was also trying to carry a giant mum. His older sister was carrying two giant mums. As they approached the main road, she asked if he needed help, & then tried to take the third mum from him, attempting to somehow balance & carry all three - when suddenly a young Amish girl flew past us, laughing softly, to help them. We watched as the three children walked barefoot down the road, to a big white house surrounded by fields & lawn. Having paid for our flowers, we turned to leave. Our young Amish hostess breathlessly appeared & asked if we had come the summer before, to buy sunflowers. Her sister said that she remembered us. We said that it was true. It had been our only previous visit to their farm. I marveled that lives could be so simple & pure that our one visit last summer would be remembered ...
The next tenants come Wednesday, for a week - they have rented the entire house. So we will pack up the downstairs before we leave tomorrow.
M.’s friend Arjen arrived today, down from Canada. They happily speak Afrikaans together. I join in occasionally, with some basic, primitive Afrikaans sentences. As they first met downstairs, after so many years, I was again aware of the presence of Our Lady, the overpowering fragrance of myrrh.
A letter from Jude. The choreography for Early Songs has been put off until later. Hopefully, by this winter.
Monday, September 12
Windgarth, 10:30 p.m.
M. & Arjen, speaking together quietly, down by the lake. Wondering how to best fill the few blank pages still left in this notebook.
When I began A Composer’s Journal, some readers wrote that I should only speak about music; most said that they wanted to know more about my life in general. Life. The various strands of events & people, thoughts & perceptions; emotions. Tonight, the upset woman at the Happy Landing grocery store down the road: “8 p.m. to 9 p.m. were my busiest hours. I came into work today & they tell me that from now on we will close at 8.” Or, on our way home, unable to buy our quart of milk, the halfmaan, the half moon over the fields. The waves at the Point. My scribbled note to the Winery asking why my CDs were not yet put out, for sale. Arjen, walking home from the Point: “ I listen to you speak English, & try to remember how you phrase your beautiful sentences, so that I can do it later.” But, as I one day leave this earth, what will I be, see, remember? If I stood in the Light of the soul, here, now, in the downstairs of Windgarth House - all that I usually know as myself would disappear.
The few times that I have been closest to death, I had been closest to life, true Life - true Self. I have, in those times, felt only anticipation, longed for the freedom of other realms. And if I truly understood St. Bonaventure’s “illumination of conscience” - then I would be standing in the Light of the soul, with the perfect vision & awareness of the events of my life here on earth, my thoughts & perceptions, my personal history, & the state of my soul in comparison to that Light. Here I am wandering into A Mystic’s Journal. But if the statistics I am given on this website are true, in any case, more-or-less everyone reads both Journals ...
And when I am writing music, scribbling down notes on the blank page - where am I standing, if not hopefully in the imaginative power of the soul Itself?
What is music? Is music really sound? If it were truly only sound, then why would I see gold bands of Light moving across space in my mind, instead of pitches? What, in fact, is sound? We assume that music is heard with the ears. But is it? Or is it heard with the mind, or with the spiritual Heart, the soul? Why are some geometries of music pleasing, or sacred - others decadent, ugly. The physical laws of music reflect the physical laws of this material universe, & those laws reflect the Divine Order of this realm & realms beyond - reaching back to the Source of all creation. Composers throughout history, have intuited these laws, established their reflection on paper, in notes on the music score. Do the different systems of music found on earth pattern themselves after the laws of various realms beyond our own? The patterns of vibration ... The laws of vibration.
Or, is the composer merely speaking the words of the soul in a different language? A non-verbal one. Or, does the soul itself reflect into patterns of sound - is this what the composer brings to the world... The unfolding of their own soul into patterns & phrases & melodies of physical sound.
If all tones exist in one tone, as the overtone series might suggest - then all music must be the unfolding of sound from one tone, somewhat like the overtone series - but with infinite possibility. Endless ideas, endless possibility, because the soul itself hums, sings - like a bell, on one pitch that contains all tones. And the songs of the soul continually unfold into their own melodies & harmonies, every second of every day. That one pitch can contain all tones, is the composite of many factors, is something we will never understand while we are in the body, on earth. A Divine Mystery. The endless tunes & harmonies & sounds are a direct reflection of the activity of the soul, & its Divine Source - all pitches & possibilities already contained within the soul. Ready to unfold. For the composer, it is merely a matter of opening the Door, setting the soul in motion, letting it unfold into being, into sound. Physical sound. Catching the melodies & harmonies as they manifest, unfold into being.
Every sound is sacred. A prayer. Every letter of every alphabet, every word. Every line that is drawn or traced onto a page. That is how it was meant to be.
And now I am thinking of a Cajun woman on CNN, a few nights ago. She was still looking for her family, lost in the aftermath of the hurricane. Her hair had been straightened, reddish/brown, carefully cut, and almost down to her shoulders. Then I realized that every strand of her hair was perfectly in place. It looked as though someone had shaped & brushed that woman’s hair for hours, in readiness for her few moments on national TV. And as the woman spoke, she began to cry, tears from her wonderful eyes, flooding her face & smearing her makeup - leaving only her hair impeccable, untouched by the tragedy; oh, such beauty & pathos in those few moments ... I will never forget her.
Wrote Jude. Must e-mail Diana about the interviews, when I return to town. Bob Spear. A stack of letters in French, with interesting foreign stamps & postmarks on the envelopes to answer. The gardens. Scores to complete & copy out.
The photo of the woman reunited with her dog, on the first page of the New York Times today. Her face covered with tears. The Heart opens, opens, opens. Opens.
Reflections on the Nature of Music: September 10- 12 , 2005
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