Music is Love: Finding Sacred Silence in Sound
We played a wedding this weekend, our first "public" performance since the pandemic began, and it was as if the sun had broken through the clouds after a six-month storm. Steve's guitar beside me, the flute inspiration coming from above and through me, the music swirled around us, stirring our souls and, for me, inviting motion from the soles of my feet to the tips of my fingers. Sunday, I was sore from Saturday's dancing.
We played high on a deck, far from the intimate group who had gathered to celebrate the adult marriage of a Congregational minister to an Irish musician. It might seem an unusual pairing, but alas they found a fitting band for that soundtrack, did they not? A breeze came in from the ocean and the view from behind the mics over the white wedding tent was of a peaceful inlet where geese sang and rippled blue water reflected the jewel-sharp autumn sky. Steve chose a few scorchers but mostly the more gentle songs in our repertoire, and it made sense. As we sang together in twenty-year harmony, I found my hands rising in circles like the gentle gestures of a Hawaiian dancer—the body evoking soft emotion that the mind had nearly forgotten in the hustle of work and school and hand sanitizer and where the hell did I leave that mask anyway? The soul does not forget.
Here is the message of music: It carries us to that place that is bigger than ourselves, where there is beauty and calm and silence in the sound, where we be together in peace, where we can release control because we are safe in the hands of something more powerful and eternally kind.
Do you think I went to church on Sunday? I didn't need to. Music brought me there already. Music is love.
A rooster is crowing in the dark somewhere in my downtown neighborhood, reminding me that it's time to start thinking about work again. The cycle repeats. Here, Calling from the Prius, episodes 12 and 13. Enjoy!