It began so clear. A dream as a photograph. A sound familiar as nesting birds in spring. The starlings collected at work. A spark that wind grew to fire. An ancient melody encoded in sound engulfed by stone covered by sky. A sea encroaches over dykes then retreats like nothing happened. The rocks tell the stories of our elders. We must learn and to learn is to listen, to listen is to hold the tongue and discover our truth. A voice on the wind only I can hear. To catch it in mid air and spin into song while learning to believe. Exercising the muscle of imagination that is so often taken from us. Bringing dreams into focus knowing what to aim for and mistakes and changing objectives,the nature of reality. Some things I can't explain. What initiates the seed of idea?
Music has been a tool in healing people for 50,000 years and likely many more. Like ancestral harps with rhythm from galloping horses and rattling of fresh shells and old dried hollow bones. The voice is masked and cloaking. Birds and wind don’t lie, nor does the sea or what lies truly deep inside. To mine the trenches of existence just to find a vein of truth to follow. There are many paths, but only you know when you stray. Words from my father , words I live by.
I stayed in a minor tuning to present a soundtrack for the clouds taking out a full afternoon sun. In with the coming tide., no where else to go. I found peace, that was all I was looking for.
