Tag: Singing Underneath

Vernal Equinox: Barred Owl Sighting

Welcome to spring! It’s currently 43° at Rosslyn, on target to hit 46° shortly. Sun is out. Snow is melting. Bulbs are bursting. So many remarkable signs and suggestions that the vernal equinox may indeed have marked the transition from winter to spring (daffodils and daylilies perking up, an auspicious sunset cloud formation, a handsome Barred Owl encounter,…)

Let’s start out with our just-passed solar equinox and then work our way toward the Barred Owl (Strix varia) and some celestial special effects from Susan’s end-of-day walk with Denise.

Vernal Equinox: Rosslyn Sundown (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)

Vernal Equinox-ish

In 2023, the official first day of spring is Monday, March 20. This date marks the “spring equinox” in the Northern Hemisphere… at 5:24 P.M. EDT. This… is the astronomical beginning of the spring season in the Northern Hemisphere… (Source: The Old Farmer’s Almanac)

That was yesterday. In fact, this post was intended to be published yesterday. On time. Relevant. But, sometimes searching for poetry preempts timely updates. Sorry.

Despite the fact that today’s post is slightly out of sync with the astronomical calendar, I couldn’t resist the chance to subtly revise yesterday’s draft and share it anyway. There was simply too much resonance. Yes, I’m biased. But after yesterday’s candid peak into Rosslyn’s artifact-packed carriage barn (and into my mental morass where architectural salvage, historic rehabilitation, poetic introspection, and memoiresque storytelling commingle) it felt, well, almost logical. Bear with me? I find that spring’s arrival rarely follows a predictable schedule. Each year unique. And, in spite of the heathen thrill that comes with romancing celestial and meteorological rituals, it would appear that the vernal equinox is merely a symbolic approximation of springtime.

An equinox occurs twice a year, around 20 March and 22 September. The word itself has several related definitions. The oldest meaning is the day when daytime and night are of approximately equal duration. (Wikipedia)

I excerpted the tidy part, eliminating the inevitable diatribe about day and night not really being the same length. A debate for another blogger. I love rituals, even when they’re easily scoffed. Here’s a flip riff by Phil Plait (@BadAstronomer) if you’d like a quick scoff before we romance the vernal equinox.

Today is the vernal equinox, what a lot of folks think of as the first day of spring (though given the forecast, people on the U.S. East Coast can be forgiven if they’re rolling their eyes at that thought, assuming their eyeballs aren’t frozen to their eyelids). (Slate)

The omnipresent smell of mud hints at spring’s earth entrance, and that’s good enough for me. No. More. Snow. Please!

Vernal Equinox: Barred Owl Sighting (Photo: Geo Davis)

Barred Owl

Lackluster snapshot, but… Barred Owl. On vernal equinox. Flying, perching, flying again. Broad daylight. Spectacular.

Tony and I were returning from the forest beyond Library Brook where we’d been blazing the next meander in Rosslyn’s ongoing trail building initiative. The brook was swollen and running wild. The trees were a-chatter with avian neighbors and squirrels riffing raucous against the riparian chorus. It felt like a page out of Dylan Thomas. And then Tony spied the owl.

“Do you see it?” he hoarse-whispered, pointing up into the trees.

I didn’t. He guided my gaze. But I couldn’t identify the big blob on a branch. Wrong sunglasses.

“It’s an owl,” he said

We walked closer. I fumbled with my phone, launch the camera app, zoomed in as far as I could, snapped a couple of images. We kept walking. The owl swooped away, an immense span of plumage, arcing through trees and branches powerfully, gracefully without brushing a twig.

Disinclined by temperament to observe overt omens and symbolism in the world around me, I’m nonetheless receptive to the “singing underneath”. Sometimes life rhymes. I try to exercise humility and wonder in these moments. I endeavor to hear and observe and sometimes to record the poetry that presents itself. I’ll leave conclusions to others. For me, for now, questions are plenty.

Vernal Equinox: Day Lilies Reawakening (Photo: Geo Davis)

Daylilies

With snow, still covering much of the ground, bulbs are bursting up, unwilling or unable to wait. The earthy array above are day lilies, among the thousands of green shoots reaching skyward below the stonewall that divides our lower lawn from upper lawn.

Perhaps overly precocious sprouts. I’d venture a guess that some more freezing nights, possibly even some more snow might challenge these daylilies. And yet, as in all previous years, they will flourish, foliage thickening, stout stems reaching somewhere between knee and waist by Independence Day when they’ll explode in joyful orange blooms. They will. And yet I can’t help wondering if they’re premature?

Vernal Equinox: Cloud Theatre I (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)

Sundown Skies

As if conjuring orange blooms is contagious, the day’s spring preview weather concluded with a dash of colorful drama and cloud theatre extraordinaire.

Taken by Susan while winding down the day with Denise and Carley, ambling Blockhouse Road, likely lost in conversation. Phone photography sure has come a long way!

Vernal Equinox: Cloud Theatre II (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)

So beguiling and mysterious is that second cloud theatre image that I’m sharing a tighter, second perspective.

Vernal Equinox: Cloud Theatre III (Photo: Susan Bacot-Davis)

Welcome back, springtime. What wonders do you have in store?

March 21, 2023
Epiphany on Epiphany: Shirley Bacot Shamel Day

Starting today, Epiphany will be Shirley Bacot Shamel Day.

Susan chuckled this morning after reminding me that her family hadn’t celebrated Epiphany when she was growing. I had reminded her that my family had, and for some reason she considers it slightly droll. It’s true that we did celebrate some holidays that my peers did not. I’m not certain why. In addition to Epiphany, we celebrated Saint Nicholas Day (aka Saint Nick’s Day) a month ago on December 6.

We celebrated all sorts of holidays that my friends did not. Christmas, yes. But also Epiphany (Three Kings Day) and another near-to-Christmas night when we placed our shoes at the top of the stairs and St. Nick (I think) came and filled them with treats. Pistachios. Chocolates. Silver dollars. (Source: Rabbit, Rabbit « virtualDavis)

Other Davis family habits and traditions make her chuckle as well, including rabbit-rabbit-ing the end and beginning of months; using “Christmas crackers“ to celebrate not only Christmas, but New Years, Thanksgiving, and just about any other festive meal; and corn cakes and turkey gravy as a customary follow-on meal after Christmas and Thanksgiving.

Although Susan thinks some of these observances amusing, it’s worth noting that she has embraced year-round crackers with gusto. Any excuse for miniature fireworks and crown-wearing appeals to her!

It was encouraging to hear Susan start the morning today with a chuckle. Today, of all days. Her spontaneous laughter instantly lifted the ominous if unspoken heaviness that had settled upon her, settled upon us, over the last 24 hours.

In addition to Epiphany, January 6 marks a more painful anniversary. Susan‘s mother, Shirley Bacot Shamel, passed away three years ago today. The loss remains palpable, and grieving is ongoing, intermittent, and usually unanticipated, triggered by a song, a memento, a photograph,…

Today’s melancholy was anticipated, and by yesterday memories were being shared. I knew that today would be difficult, but I hadn’t come up with any clever ways to support my beautiful bride.

But Susan’s early morning laughter lifted my hopes and prompted an epiphany! (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) Suddenly I had an idea how to transform this solemn day into a more joyful remembrance. Let’s start a new tradition of our own.

Starting today, Epiphany will be Shirley Bacot Shamel Day.

Epiphany²

To follow my logic, if there is any (and I’d venture a suggestion that epiphanies needn’t follow the laws of logic), we might first take a look at capital “E”, Epiphany.

January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ. (Source: Merriam-Webster)

For some readers this is familiar. For others, not, so here’s a slightly more expansive explanation.

After the 12th day of Christmas, believers take down their festive decor. But they don’t let January 6—or January 19 for many Orthodox Christians who still abide by the Julian calendar—pass by without another Christmas-connected celebration.

Tied to biblical accounts of Jesus Christ’s birth and baptism, the holiday of Epiphany is a chance for Christians to reflect on the nature of God’s physical manifestation on Earth and pay homage to three important visitors in the biblical account of Jesus’ birth. (Source: National Geographic)

The three important visitors in the second explanation and the Magi mentioned in the first are one and the same. Also known as the three wise men, the three kings (sometimes even by name: Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar), and sometimes more by association with the gifts they bore: gold, myrrh, and frankincense.

If you’re anywhere as keen a Christmas carol aficionado as I am, you’re familiar with these three gift bearing gentlemen, but if not, you’ve at least a basic understanding now.

So that’s capital “E”, Epiphany. What about this morning’s lowercase “e”, epiphany?

Again I need to reach back a little. I’m as keen on getting and decorating a Christmas tree as I am on Christmas carols, and given the anticipation it represents (and the beauty it adds to mornings and evenings) I prefer to jumpstart Christmas by finding a handsome evergreen and decorating it midway between Thanksgiving and Christmas. And that means I’m ready by New Year’s Eve for it to morph from crispy needle-dropping leftover to lush, colorful memory. But we rarely manage to get the tree down by New Year’s Eve or even New Year’s Day. So, in keeping with National Geographic’s observation, it had struck me that today might be the perfect time to un-decorate the Christmas tree.

But that’s not the epiphany. In trying to anticipate a way to brighten my bride’s morning on a particularly mournful morning, I thought wishing her a happy Epiphany and proposing that we start a new tradition of removing the Christmas tree each year on January 6 might shift her perspective and strike her innate sense of logic. But…

That chuckle.

Starting today, Epiphany will be Shirley Bacot Shamel Day.

Shirley Bacot Shamel Day

The eureka moment catalyzed by Susan’s superpower smile and laugh suddenly made it all clear. Yes, we needed to launch a new family tradition. From now on Epiphany should be a holiday to celebrate the legacy of Susan’s mother. Three years ago we lost Shirley. On this day. And on this day we recognize three kings bearing gifts. Loose logic? No logic?!?! But sometimes the universe rhymes, and in that moment I could hear the singing underneath, connecting these nominally connected dots into a perfect picture of Epiphany as Shirley Day. Sure, we could remove ornaments from the tree, and I could drag it out back for wood chipping. But maybe we should think bigger. A hooky day. No work. A day to remember and celebrate and show our love for the lady who blessed our union before it even existed. (That story for another day.)

And so today we started a new family tradition. We canceled commitments, bundled into our ski gear, and headed into the snowy mountains for some outdoor bliss. And you know what? It worked. It recalibrated our brains. It lifted our spirits. Whether or not the tree is going to get tackled is still uncertain. But a delicious dinner this evening; a hot tub soak as we were enjoying the night Shirley passed; and some time together gazing up at a bright star that guided three kings, a star that Susan named after her mother three years ago, a star that now helps guide us; this is 100% certain.

January 6, 2023
October Rain
October Rain (Source: Geo Davis)

Sometimes it’s as if frames from two different films overlap. For a moment. Sometimes longer. Occasionally the overlapping images complement one another, but often the experience is jarring. Confusing. Unsettling.

Seasons bleed into one another playfully, testing our agility, our resilience. Far-flung geographies, domiciles, and life stages muddle, merge, and drift apart again. Our worlds intermingle. For a moment. Sometimes longer.

October Rain, Wordy
```
Tell me a story
of prism pocks on pears.
Sing me a song 
of raindrops on apples.
Pen me a poem
of flickering daylight,
flirting with nightfall;
of sleepless longing
for toil-oiled muscles
and limber limbed spring;
of sauntering through
my cherished orchard
in sultry summer,
still oblivious to
the dreary drama
of October rain.
```
October Rain, Visual

Sometimes poetry leans on language, word bricks and word mortar, to sculpt a song or a story. Sometimes vision is enough to free the singing underneath…

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CjYQvj3AtKY/

October Rain, Singalong

Another perspective on October Rain just might wiggle it’s way into your mental repeat. I happened upon the subtly hypnotic jingle by Robin Jackson, and now it’s continuous looping like a subconscious 8-track tape in my graying gray matter.

Mostly October is crisp and clear along the Adirondack Coast. Quintessential autumn. But exceptions and rules are made in mysterious ways…
October 6, 2022
Quest for Permission
Quest for Permission (Photo: Geo Davis)

I am on a quest for permission. Permission from Susan, from Rosslyn, even from family and friends. Most of all I am on a quest for permission from myself. This morning a serendipitous swirl of accidental-coincidental happenings helped me realize this. Chief among them (and the rightful recipients my profound gratitude) in the order they fluttered across my morning:
- newly arrived “intense black” (actually deep green) fountain pen ink from Wordsworth & Black;
- a joy-filled (cheerful words and jolly doodles) letter from my mother, Melissa Davis;
- timely, astute, perspective bending counsel from Virginia Woolf; and
- even more timely but equally astute, epiphanic insight from Nick Bantock.
In the photograph above, a few artifacts hint at the serendipitous series of events that, to my arguably esoteric way of thinking, fall into a phenomenon I refer to as rhyming. Sometimes the universe rhymes, or as poet Jeffrey Harrison might offer, if you’re receptive to it, you might hear “The Singing Underneath“. I’d best stand aside and let him guide us.

“just beneath the world we see,
there is a silent singing that breaks out
at moments, in flickering points of light.”
— Jeffrey Harrison, “The Singing Underneath”

The fountain pen, clogged with dry ink, awaiting new ink, had been a metaphorical reminder that I was stuck. Clogged. I wasn’t flowing as I needed to be. But new ink arrived just in time. The crusty piston pulled clean water in and pushed it out again. Unclogging with each plunge of the piston. Anticipation as I drew up the new ink. And then lines on paper. Perfect. Flowing again.

My mother’s 2-page note, complete with her unique illustrations, was an attentive parade of grateful acknowledgments gathered during a recent adventure together. Unselfconscious. Whimsical. Honest.

Virginia Woolf’s words needn’t be explained, only shared.

“He chooses; he synthesizes; in short, he has ceased to be a chronicler; he has become an artist.” — Virginia Woolf

I don’t know where I came across these words, and I’m failing now to find them. Perhaps I’ve misattributed this quotation? This morning at least, it doesn’t matter. The shift in perspective is precisely what I needed to consider. to prepare me for the keystone concept that gathered it all together.

Artist and author, Nick Bantock, shared a reflection on Griffin & Sabine that resonated right for me.

THE idea of writing a love letter to oneself sounds both indulgent and cheesy, and yet done in the name of self-acceptance rather than narcissism, I feel there’s much merit to the act.

I think when I wrote the following passage, from Sabine to Griffin, I was doing exactly that, I was articulating an inner need to bringing together and unite my opposite selves, my logical and intuitive personas:

“I have loved you in every manner that my imagination could contrive. I have wanted you so deeply that my body sang with pain and pleasure. You have been my obsession, my passion, my philosophers stone of fantasy. You are my desire, my longing, my spirit. I love you unconditionally. Do you hear me, Griffin? Do you see that I cherish you beyond question, that you have nothing to prove to me? You are making your journey to secure yourself. I am already tethered to your side. If you can love yourself, as I love you, there will be no dislocation — you will be whole. Bring yourself home to me and I will immerse you in every ounce of tenderness I possess. Sabine.”

Looking back, I can see that whilst the tale of G and S was certainly an expression of romantic longing, it was also a quest for permission. I was trying to give myself, and others, the encouragement to be both opposite and whole. — Nick Bantock (Source: Facebook, November 14, 2022)

Eureka! In revealing what he’s come to understand about what compelled him to create the Griffin & Sabine books, his words struck that ineffable something that Susan and I are grappling with and that I’ve been exploring in Rosslyn Redux — wondering, yearning, exploring, growing toward, backsliding and second guessing, and then venturing tentatively out again — over the last couple of years. I genuinely believe that he has captured succinctly and lucidly our journey: it’s “a quest for permission.”

I’ve referenced frequently, perhaps too frequently, an ongoing transformation in our relationship with Rosslyn, an evolution in our scheming and prognosticating and brainstorming. I’ve acknowledged liminality and the sometimes bittersweet, sometimes conflicted emotions that manifest suddenly and unpredictably as we attempt to navigate from comfort and stability toward the unfamiliar, unknown. At last I’ve stumbled on what I’ve needed to know. My quest for permission needn’t require such wayward roving. It is first and foremost my own consent I’m questing after. And part of accepting this is granting myself permission to embrace art above chronicle. I’ve suspected this. Dithered. Wondered. Worried. But this morning a confident confluence is flowing. And I’m ready…
November 15, 2022
We Traveled Far and Wide Until We Found a Home

Vintage Sherwood Inn Postcard (Source: Rosslyn Private Collection)

Almost two months ago I shared a reel on Instagram. I’m still new to reels, so I’ve been experimenting, playing really, exploring the potential. I actually really enjoy the ultra short format videos, and I’ve found the music matching and recommendation capacity provided by Instagram to be a little bit addictive. Sometimes the music recommended is spot on! Or at leas it seems to be…

Instagram recommended a clip from Rhiannon Giddens (@rhiannongiddens) “Build a House” and it seemed perfect! Hauntingly beautiful melody, Yo-Yo Ma (@yoyoma) accompanying on cello, and a message that seemed custom curated for what I was thinking about.

So then I traveled far and wide, far and wide, far and wide
And then I traveled far and wide until I found a home

— Rhiannon Giddens (“Build a House”)

It turns out my haste and enthusiasm got the better of me. Here’s the Instagram Reel.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/CjjLMpSAr9x/

Arresting voice, mesmerizing lyric, and just plain captivating. Paired with a couple moody mugs of Rosslyn, it felt like a worthwhile experiment in Reel-creation. The platform does a remarkable job of empowering creativity, and I’ve found that the best way to learn is simply to try things out. Sort of like my approach to learning languages. Jump in. You might look silly sometimes, but jettisoning restraint and self consciousness definitely accelerates the learning curve.

But…

I should have done a little more research. Twenty-twenty hindsight. Yes, Rhiannon Giddens and Yo-Yo Ma breath life into “Build A House” in this hypnotic, haunting earworm. But this tiny excerpt of the lyrics — a couplet perfectly paired to my goals — is actually part of a potent song-story that is decidedly ill served by my pairing. In fact, I realize that I’ve flirted uncomfortably close with cultural appropriation. I understand that now.

Here’s Ms. Giddens on the song which was premiered on June 19, 2020.

“This song came knocking about a week ago and I had to open the door and let it in. What can I say about what’s been happening, what has happened, and what is continuing to happen, in this country, in the world? There’s too many words and none, all at once. So I let the music speak, as usual. What a thing to mark this 155th anniversary of Juneteenth with that beautiful soul Yo-Yo Ma. Honored to have it out in the world.” — Rhiannon Giddens

Here’s a clear eyed couple of couplets that add irony to my misappropriation of the verse, of the audio excerpt.

“I learned your words and wrote a song, wrote a song, wrote a song
I learned your words and wrote a song to put my story down

But then you came and took my song, took my song, took my song
But then you came and took my song, playing it for your own”

Rhiannon Giddens (Build a House)

Wow! I don’t think I can do much work in explaining how it felt to realize that I too had come along and taken her song, playing it for my own. Surreal.

Needless to say, I was tempted to remove the reel, to hang my head for perpetuating the pain captured so poignantly in the lyrics. But pretending I hadn’t made the mistake would be disingenuous. Own it. Humbly. Aware that this is not my song. It is borrowed. Out of context. Here’s the correct context.

That’s Rhiannon Giddens and Yo-Yo Ma performing “Build a House”. I’m certain you can’t watch/listen just once. Gidden’s song (and signing) woven into a musical story with Yo-Yo Ma’s unrivalled cello playing is like a pair of human voices sharing a memories, maybe a constellation of memories, a heritage. But rather than quaking under the burden of this heritage, the voices sing, rising and falling, repeating almost playfully. This song invites the listener to join in the infectious lyrics, daring the listener to become active, to join the song, to join the lament, help carry the burdensome heritage.

This interpretation, mine and decidedly unacademic, to be sure, seems to be consistent with the fact that Ms. Giddens song is also a book. For children. For adults. For all of us. There’s an accessibility, an infectious accessibility that “Build a House” vibrates into existence that wraps us all in the embrace of the story, that asks us all to carry the song forward. Even those of us inclined to hastily adopt it as out own, even if it might not appear to be our own.

Here’s the song as a video walkthrough of the illustrated book.

So I finish, conflicted with why I feel so compelled with this song despite the painful lyrics, why the rhythm and energy and spirit of the song continue to embrace me even as I recognize my initial misstep. No conclusions yet. But I’ve decided to leave the reel and acknowledge it here, to examine it honestly. If I offend, please accept my apologies. But if I have possibly brought this important song to you, and if it has germinated within your psyche as it has within my own, then perhaps my decision is not in vain. I certainly hope that will be the case.

Update: We Become One

A fee days have passed since I shared this post, and I’m still unable to let it go. Today I received a subtle hint from the universe. I like to think of moments when life rhymes, when, for a moment, we hear the singing underneath. I’ve just had one of those moments. I received an invitation to attend the upcoming Christmas caroling “pop-ups” that will be performed in coming weeks by the Santa Fe Desert Chorale. And linking through to the website I watched a video that included Joshua Haberman, Artistic Director for the Santa Fe Desert Chorale, talking about the power of chorale music. Specifically he was talking about lone individuals walking into Santa Fe Sings performances with a bit of trepidation because they arrived alone. But once inside, once the singing began, these individuals ceased to be alone. “Singing together we become one voice, one human family.” This struck me as the answer, or at least part of the answer, that I’ve been searching for. The power of music, especially music that invites us to sing or dance or sing-and-dance, is that it joins us together. We become one family.

December 5, 2022