heartshaped socks will carry me home,

Hymns, and folk tunes, the perfect winter day.

I have gathered thoughts around my banjo, and found myself pulling strings of hand written songs, and heart spun melodies. It's nice to escape the world of television screens, and internet highways. To be away from the telephone, and closer to the kettle, is how I ought to be lately. 

To appreciate, and fully hold hands with your surroundings, you have to escape every once and a while. Playing an instrument is one of the nicest ways to reconnect myself to things I've forgotten, or taken for granted. Like the mountains, the sky, the kettle coo, or the oven.  When I hear the echo of the moon shaped instrument,  I feel as though I am reminded.  Reminded of the sweet things that exist without sockets, or buttons.

If you've ever traveled to the land of instruments, or music making, you'll understand what I mean. If you've never, then I suggest you press those piano keys, pull those guitar strings, hammer on that banjo, bang on that drum, sing to the tune of that sparrow's song.   When your hands meet an instrument to compose an echo, a patter, a slap, a shriek, or a sigh - it's as if the mossy hill and the skyline meet.  As if we're all heaven bound when our instruments are singing.

 

I've often wondered what I've spent my life doing before I found melodies, and song strumming. When I imagine those days, I imagine a girl without wings - or teeth. I did not take flight - the way I do now. I did not chew my food  - the way I do now.    

I blame the years of empty fingers on my poetry. 

I suppose, I left the grandmother gifted guitar in the stand, because I figured my poetry was enough. And truly, my poetry is enough, sometimes.  Penning words will always be my favorite pastime.   But music, music is something else.  Written poetry is the evocation of my own feelings and sounds. Where as, Music creates a fabric - a gently sewn masterpiece of not only sounds, but of poems, and paintings, and story telling.....   A collaboration of all things beautiful. 

 For the instrument bent folks,

Poetry is to music what Tea is to the kettle.  The prepared leaves of a flower are carefully placed to sweeten your cup, but what is the tea cup without the kettle's coo.   We sweeten our bellies with poems, but for us, the songstresses, and the tea drinkers, we are not complete until we hear our instrument's humming, or our kettle's meowing.  Our books, our teacups, and our poems remain unfinished until we make our throats, our hands, and our tea pots sing.  Remind yourself: We are lucky to know the stretch in our fingers when composing a tune. It's as if we're song birds sitting on a pine, becoming one with the world around us.

For the empty finger folks,

You know, if you look around you, you'll see that music is everywhere.

In the bark of the wolf, in the wild horse neighing, in the swirl of the river, in the 4 am sleepless television screen, in the mother's lullaby, in the folk song, in the hip hop ballad, in the chanting of a stadium, in the birds cry, in the howl of the wind. Everywhere.

When we begin to listen to our surroundings, we can better understand why people strum, sing, compose, or sway. Sound is beautiful.  When you pluck, tap, or bang on your instrument, you are creating music. And to me, there aint nothing as good for the soul, as hearing your once empty fingers, playing to a warble, a jig, or a ditty that you've created.

So I guess the message hidden beneath my words here, is that sound is beautiful, but music-making is even more so.  Don't believe me?
Pick up that dusty guitar, your silent piano, the rusty old harp, or the kitchen spoons.
Let the birds listen to you.

Kisses for everyone!

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