The Path Leads On

I'm trying another little step here, to see if this blogging path is still right for me.  I have been keeping my head down for a while, wanting to sort things out for myself away from the din of other voices, other labels.  That and being very busy with a bunch of business that is nobody else's business, thank you.  Sure, I've still been up to lots of interesting remodeling and such, but that's not the stuff that rattles around my mind and demands to be written.

One thing that did get written was a song (surprise!), and in a circumspect way, it says something about where I've been.

The Path Leads On
© 2009 Laura Herman

Here's a hand
to help you back onto your feet.
Take my arm for awhile;
take my shoulder if you need it;
but once you're steady,
once you're ready,
the next step is yours...

The path leads on
from wherever you have fallen.
The path leads on;
it's a winding, narrow way.
There is no place
too far, too wrong:
starting just where you are,
the path leads on.

Here you are.
I know you think you should be there,
high above all of this,
and you're sinking in despair, oh,
but while you're hurting,
while you're searching,
you are on the way...

The path leads on
from wherever you have fallen.
The path leads on;
it's a winding, narrow way.
There is no place
too far, too wrong:
starting just where you are,
the path leads on.

Being "on the straight and narrow" -
what a sad, mistaken notion!
He said "strait is the gate" -
like Gibraltar to the ocean:
a narrow way that leads
to life
where your heart
and your horizons
open wide... open wide...

The path leads on
from wherever you have fallen.
The path leads on;
it's a winding, narrow way.
There is no place
too far, too wrong, too gone:
starting just where you are,
the path leads on.

Winter Severe Weather

I tap the digits of the long-distance number and wait, half listening, for the point in the menu where I can press 4 for our region and 3 for our forecast. My mind tunes out the random clip advertising other services, but the echo of that voice returns at moments through the day: "Winter Severe Weather..."

In this land, this week,
severe weather is a violent stillness
creeping inward to the places where life
huddles
curling protectively around its own spark
waiting, hoping to last
until rescue.

Lasting until rescue, and knowing some will not, is a grim reality of life in this land. Small wonder that Connie Kaldor sings, "I come from a land that is harsh and unforgiving..." and tells the story of one who "tried to walk and froze to death, fifty feet from town." Sometimes summer too drains life away: again Connie sings of those still standing, stony faced with survivor guilt, "hoping to hold on so you don't end up like the neighbours: him and her, they're weeping as the auctioneer yells."

In a gentler song of springtime, Ian Tyson recalls the names of his neighbours and their ranches, where each in turn is pictured "pulling calves," helping with the birthing and rejoicing that they "made it through another on the northern range." In the last line of the song, though, he brings to mind the name of one more rancher, one who has pulled calves for the last time: "Gid's in the country where the tall grass grows..."

Annie Gardenbed's Song

Your world is good for me
and so I give you thanks
for soil and seasons, seeds and sun,
for water and wisdom and work to be done.
Your world is good for me
(Annie Gardenbed) -
Amen!

This work by Laura Herman is licensed under a Creative Commons
Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 2.5 Canada License.

Sorry about the Noncommercial break, but I wanted Disney's
legal hordes to know that I'm not trying to profit by this.

Your world.
I don't say who "you" is, but there is no need. I am singing to one who is present, listening; why use a name? It would only drag us off into arguments about the connotations of the name, and then about which gender of pronoun we should use when the name is too burdensome to speak in its entirety.

Isn't it rude to argue about someone when they are present?

Your world is good for me.
It is a whole world, and it is larger than my doubts and fears about what may be done to me specifically. It is a good place in which to choose my way.

I give you thanks . . .
and in so doing, I open my own eyes, and my whole being, to the wonder, blessings, and possibilities that are all around me, always, whether I remember to give thanks or not.

Soil.
Do I own it? Because I can surround it with survey stakes, do I really own the soil? If I turn and tear it with the movement of steel, driven by combustion commanded by cash, do I forget? It is much more ancient than I and my title. It is more fluid and changing than the lines on the deed. It anchors the roots of life, records the traces of centuries, and yet whole decades of its building can be swept away, to a new place and people, in a few windstorms or a single flood.

Is soil, all too often, taken as a given instead of as a gift?

Seasons.
Dave Sauchyn of Regina, trying to create the few bullet points asked of him to somehow sum up a 448-page report on the impacts of climate change in Canada, said this:

Canada is losing the competitive advantage of a cold winter.

Seeds, sun, and water . . .
the things we often remember in our thanks.

There is so much more.

Wisdom.
If you find a little here, I am thankful.

Work to be done!

In our modern world we only deem something a success if we can stand back idle and watch it work. If any physical effort is required, it is an outright failure. . . . The very first thing we do when seeing something so elegantly simple and useful as this pump is scheme to make it work while we just stand by and stare at it.

--Eleutheros

There is a pitfall in being thankful for things given to us. The story of Johnny Appleseed is inspiring, but the popular version, as summed up in the merry little verse, drifts toward a "big-rock-candy-mountain" vision of idyllic idleness achieved at last, as a result of someone else's generous hard work. That vision entices, seduces, and robs us of the wonderful gifts of our own work: tending; bringing forth; growing strong; growing wise; being present; finding meaning.

Through work we receive the ability to give.

Your world is good for me!

Amen.

Annie Gardenbed

I aspire to be known as Annie Gardenbed someday - but I aspire to be and do many things, and I can work on only a few at a time, so if someone else earns the name first, I won't be disappointed. I hope this blog post might help that happen.

Why Annie Gardenbed? Well, it's a little play on the name Johnny Appleseed. I'd like to be like Johnny, except that instead of planting apples, I'd be digging new garden plots and getting new gardeners started.

The popular legend is that Johnny wandered all over planting apple seeds almost anywhere, so that whoever came along later could gather apples. As with any legend, the reality is similar but different: John Chapman was a wandering planter of apples, but he planted nurseries in areas where settlers would soon be arriving, and had the seedlings ready to sell to the settlers for their homestead orchards. Still, the legend captures some of the spirit of his life and legacy, in that he lived extremely simply; he was generous in his dealings; and his undertaking was remarkable enough to earn him the nickname "Johnny Appleseed" by about halfway through his long life. The real story, or what we think we know of it, is richer and stranger than the legend, and definitely worth a look.

When I came up with the idea of "Annie Gardenbed," I knew only the popular legend of Johnny, and a related little song that we often use as a mealtime grace:

Oh, the Lord is good to me,
and so I thank the Lord
for giving me the things I need:
the sun and the rain and the apple seed.
The Lord is good to me.
Alleluia, Amen!

Many people sing "Johnny Appleseed" instead of Alleluia in the last line. The song appears in many places unattributed, as if it were a folk tune going back to the days of Johnny himself, but thanks to Cathy's Grace Notes, and some further sleuthing, I learned that it is a verse from a song written by Kim Gannon and Walter Kent for the Walt Disney Music Company in 1946, and sung by Dennis Day in the animated short "Johnny Appleseed" (part of Disney's 1948 release "Melody Time"). The sheet music is still available.

I'm disappointed. Today while washing dishes I came up with a little verse for Annie Gardenbed, but I don't dare tell you what the tune is, or Disney might come after me. I'm not afraid of ordinary mice, but . . .

I think I'll see about a public domain license for my verse, before I post it. That way at least I'll have evidence that I'm not trying to profit from Disney's tune in any way.

Or should I just go ahead an post it anyway?

Narrow Way

My song of prayer for these days of remembrance. I'll be singing it at the Remembrance Day service, not because I especially wanted to have it heard, but they were looking for "something different" and couldn't find a soloist, and then even the usual choir anthem was looking unlikely since so many choir members will be away - and so I stuck my neck out. Later another soloist came forward, and I tried to back out, but no, they wanted both.

I hope it works out alright. I am always drawn to the borderlines, the places where controversy brews, and I fear negative reactions to my explorations. All I've heard is positive, even when I thought certain people might be offended, but still I wonder. Are they just being polite? Maybe some are thinking, "That Laura, she's always pushing her way into every community function with one of her songs." And what about my ideas? What do they really think?

Narrow Way
© 2006 Laura Herman

O, God, help us
find that narrow way.

Where we honour those who died
and stand by the veteran's side
but never glorify the battle day:
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

Where we heed the call to serve
and convictions steel our nerve
but yet where evil will not be obeyed:
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

Where we cannot close our eyes
to the horrors and the lies
but still our hearts are soft enough to pray:
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

Where our world is once again at war
and we doubt the hope we knew before
help us stand our guard;
help us name the sin;
help us work for peace,
but not give in:

help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way;
help us find that narrow way.

Home from Kenosee

I started this post a week ago, Sunday August 20th. It's refreshing, now, to read it and remember what the Kenosee Lake Kitchen Party was like. Today I saw Denise, another camper at the Kitchen Party, and we agreed that there was a great let-down afterward. But there is still the music, and next year...

Saturday morning I finally slept in - just a little. All week I had been waking at six or earlier, with fiddle tunes running in my head, and all those new guitar challenges twitching my fingers, and bubbling underneath it all, a deep and sparkling joy that wouldn't let me slow down.

The Kenosee Kitchen Party was magical. I never dreamed I could learn so much in one week, and I can't remember having so much fun, ever, not in my entire lifetime.

But I didn't get enough sleep.

We had concerts every evening, the first three by our instructors (incredible playing!) and the last two by the whole lot of us (sheer fun). I couldn't sit still at those concerts, partly because my back ached from playing so much, but partly because all those jigs and reels got in my blood and made me dance. Then after the concerts we'd move down to the campfire on the lakeshore and play and sing some more. When I finally got to bed each night, the music was still with me, and I lay wide awake, dancing inside.

And then woke at six. Or four. My cabin was right across from the washrooms, so you'd think I could just stumble over there with my eyes half open and then get back to bed, but no. My head would be whirling with all the stuff to learn, and how I needed to practise, and besides, I forgot my alarm clock. So I'd lie wide awake some more, and then give up and leap into another day.

Wednesday morning, standing groggy in front of my puffy-eyed reflection in the shower room, I recalled my assignment from the day before: to write a silly lyric having something to do with fish, to the tune of the Westphalia Waltz. Simple enough, except that I couldn't remember that tune at all. I was pondering this problem and the possible remedies, when some sadistic muse hit me over the head with a still-flapping fishy bit of doggerel.

Fish -
dreaming of fish -
dreaming of Lucas's fish.
I wish
that I were a trout.
Just
to be a fish -
just to be Lucas's fish,
waving above his snout.

I went quickly from groggy to giggling.

Perhaps I should explain a bit. Or a lot.

The Kenosee Kitchen Party is a five-day music camp, based on the idea of a fiddle camp, but aimed at a wider audience. At a fiddle camp, there are guitar and piano classes for people who want to learn to accompany fiddle music, but at Kenosee those classes were more general, for any lovers of guitar and piano. We guitar students got to learn all sorts of things, including some new tunes to play as a group at the final concert. Then again, we were also divided up into groups and handed a bunch of chord charts to learn, to accompany groups of fiddlers at the final concert.

But getting back to Westphalia and the fish . . . on Tuesday, the whole lot of us (fiddlers, pianists, and guitarists, including instructors) were divided into three mixed groups and sent off to rehearse for a "band scramble." Each group had three hours, one hour each day from Tuesday to Thursday, to come up with some sort of musical offering for the Thursday evening Pig 'n' Whistle.

At our first rehearsal, somebody suggested we start by playing something that everyone knew. Westphalia was offered, and those of us who didn't know it said we would learn. One of the guitar students was delighted to hear it, because it was the same tune that she knew as the "Dreamy Fish Waltz," and she was looking for the lyrics.

Nobody knew the lyrics.

But the idea of a fish had been planted. The instructors in our group exchanged mirthful looks and explained that Lucas Welsh, another instructor, had won the 2003 Saskatchewan Fiddling Championship while wearing a hat with a large fish head on the front. There had been talk of the "Power of the Fish" ever since. So, maybe we could come up with a fishy lyric. Did anyone in the group write lyrics?

My wrist stayed on my leg, but my hand lifted enough to be noticed.

And so it came to pass, that instead of sleeping the last couple of hours before breakfast on Wednesday, I was juggling fishy rhymes, and wondering if I even had the right melody.

Turns out that I did. And Thursday night at the Pig 'n' Whistle, I got to sing it. Got to, or had to? The instructors did some wonderful monologue over the A section of the tune, telling the story of the fish and throwing in lots of other fsshy stuff. And I sang:

Fish -
dreaming of fish -
dreaming of Lucas's fish.
I wish
that I were a perch-
-in' on his hat.
Just
to be a fish -
just to be Lucas's fish,
winkin' at April Verch.

Fish -
dreaming of fish -
dreaming of Lucas's fish.
I wish
that I were a trout.
Just
to be a fish -
just to be Lucas's fish,
bobbing above his snout.

(and some more monologue, and then - )

Fish -
dreaming of fish -
dreaming of Lucas's fish.
I wish
that I were a perch-
-in' on his hat.
Just
to be a fish -
just to be Lucas's fish,
winkin' at April Verch.
Imagine that!

Fish -
dreaming of fish -
dreaming of Lucas's fish.
I wish
that I were a wall-
-eye or a pick-er-el.
Just
to be a fish -
just to be Lucas's fish,
hoping that I
don't fall.
His bow would fillet me!

Friday night at the campfire I had to sing it again, by request. I don't think any of us will ever hear Westphalia again without thinking of Lucas's fish.

After the Pig 'n' Whistle came a square dance. I was standing by the wall, watching the dancers gather in squares, when our guitar instructor Ray Bell walked in, pointed at me, and found me a partner. What fun! I had to bully my young guitar-guy partner to keep dancing - he wanted to go join the band, but I told him he had to find me a new partner first - and after a while he caught on and had a good time, too. Friday night's old-tyme dance had some square dancing as well, but this time Ray invited me to play in the band. A few songs into the dance, Andy McNamee showed up with his guitar, too. He said I looked like I was having so much fun, he had to join in. Andy is a gentleman, an octogenarian with lots of stories from his Air Force days. He and I were often the first to show up at our classes, and he would tell me tales and admire my playing. I admired his, too. I hope he's there again next year.

Friday's campfire was more subdued. Lucas wasn't there - that was part of it. He had left immediately after the concert for an eight-and-a-half-hour drive up to Big River to play in the Bluegrass Festival. And that was after staying up until two or three in the morning all week, and no sleeping in; breakfast ended at nine. Crazy guy.

But Lucas wasn't the only one who had left, and those of us that remained were starting to think about goodbyes and home, I guess. Linda and Audrey, Denise and Lori and Cheryl, I hope it won't be a whole year before we're getting together to play again. You're not far away. And Michele, and Buzz, and Al and Bill. My kitchen is cozy - come on over!

And then it was Saturday morning, and I could hear people going to breakfast. I didn't even comb my hair, just threw on some clothes and went. One more hearty meal, and back to my cabin to throw my stuff in the suitcase. Ruth would be waiting. Six weeks she'd been away at the Air Cadet Summer Training Centre in Penhold, Alberta, taking music courses, and I hadn't even met her at the airport, because she got in during our final concert at Kenosee. My friend Anita had met her instead, and taken her back to their farm overnight. I phoned to say I was on my way, and Anita told me that Ruth wasn't complaining, but she was clearly longing to be home, now that she was so close.

Some quick goodbyes, and I was on the road. The highway south out of the Moose Mountains never seemed so high and beckoning, nor the sky so wide and bright. But as I came to Carlyle, the fiddle tunes and toe-tapping and hollering for more had begun to recede, and my old habits of thought came pushing forward again: thoughts about agriculture and industry and ecology and such. I tried to listen to the CD I'd bought, "In My Dreams" by Lucas Welsh (scroll down), but the player in the car always skips so badly that it locks into one short loop of sound and goes nowhere. Oh well. I drove on south of Carlyle, watching combines working in the fields.

Soon I was greeting the kids at Anita's farm. They were packed and ready to go - probably the quickest departure we'd ever made from that hard-to-leave place. And everyone was talking at once, all trying to tell our stories of the past week or of the whole summer. The Geo Metro is a small place for a clamor like that. I bit back my own stories and tried to listen, and tried to be glad of my kids and their excitement, but they were urgent and demanding and becoming strident, and I missed the rhythm and harmony of the constant sound at camp.

Through all of this, I was driving, automatically, down the gravel road. Suddenly, but gently, my eyes were drawn to the drift of alfalfa along the ditch, flowering, and twinkling with butterflies.

******

Home. Our cat, completely out of character, purring and loving because he'd missed us. If only he could appreciate us while we're around! The note I'd left for Mom, under the bowl of tomatoes, saying "Help yourself - and please don't do my dishes!" The tomato bowl, empty, and - wonder of wonders - the dishes left undone, for once. Luggage to unpack, laundry, those dishes, some meals. And then, at bedtime, long after dark, the sudden recollection that James was supposed to have walked a friend's dog today.

What to do? The dog might bark when we arrived and disturb the neighbours, but what if he'd run out of food and water?

I let James off, and went to walk the dog myself. When I let myself into the garage and turned on my flashlight, there was no welcoming rush of doggy energy, but as I took a few steps forward, there was a soft, anxious "Woof!" I spoke and he bounded joyfully to me. He had plenty of food, but he sure wanted that walk. Jog. Gallop. I let him run a bit at the south edge of town, a little worried about him disappearing into the shadows, but unwilling to deny him this little bit of daily freedom.

When we turned back again, there were the Northern Lights, arching bright and bold even through the wash of the lights of town. I returned a contented dog to his yard, and finally made my way home alone. I stopped for a moment by the darker space of the empty schoolyard, and watched the Northern Lights dance.

Hope, Heartache, and Hoodoos

Light and shadow.
Chance and millenia, layered.
The sad beauty of barrenness.

I was surprised to find that that gray layer I'd been seeing in the valley banks was not clay, but sandstone. Some things are more solid than they seem.

*******

James and I happened on these hoodoos east of Drumheller by accident, after he decided he didn't want any more sightseeing and picked the shortest road back to the ranch house in the sandhills. We had been to Penhold, near Red Deer, Alberta, to see Ruth's graduation from her music program at the Air Cadet Summer Training Centre. The plan was to pick her up from there, but she was asked to stay on for another three weeks. Then we went to Calgary to put Garth on the plane to Nepal, and visit with Cathy and John and their boys. The bunch of us made the short trip out to Calaway Park, and I had some fun there in spite of my aversion to the whole concept of a piece of land dedicated to parking lots, power rides and junk food. I still like a Ferris Wheel. I took it easy, letting James decide when it was time to go, and then we headed for Drumheller, back to the badlands where we had camped overnight on the way out. I thought we would camp again, and see the dinosaur museum, and play on the elaborate splash-pad, and climb up to the lookout in the jaws of the giant T.-rex statue. But in the end, all we did was eat and drive on. The hoodoos were a fortuitous treat along the way, and then we drove and drove, with James lapsing into sleep, and me enjoying a classic country station on the radio, and a thunderstorm leading the way across those wide, high plains.

What's the title about? Hope and heartache?

I'm not sure, but it has something to do with the time away, and the coming home. And something to do with my morose musings today, over at The Daily Bed. This post started out as just a link to that one, and then it needed something, so I went looking for a picture, and found the hoodoos.

And now I remember a song.

Longing for the Badlands
© Laura Herman 2002

This little private lawn,
screened from all beyond,
and rich with all the perfume of the flowers
where he led me on his arm,
smiling full of charm,
and told me all his treasure would be ours...

Oh, the fountain flowing free,
the arch of ancient trees,
the hedges round the stately formal garden.
It's a lovely place to be,
or so they all tell me,
but here I stand, longing for the badlands.

I come to meet the dawn,
calling from beyond;
I watch the distant cloudbanks turning golden.
Those tints of rose and grey,
they look so far away
like the morning light on claybanks in the high plains.

Oh, the fountain flowing free,
the arch of ancient trees,
the hedges round the stately formal garden.
It's a lovely place to be,
or so they all tell me,
but here I stand, longing for the badlands.

The fountain and the stream
whisper in my dreams.
In my heart I hear the wind across the badlands.
Though I stand beside a pool,
there's a desert in my soul
and his footsteps on the cobbles bring no gladness.

Oh, the fountain flowing free,
the arch of ancient trees,
the hedges round the stately formal garden.
It's a lovely place to be,
or so they all tell me,
but here I stand, longing for the badlands.

The Turning of the Tide

I wrote this song one week ago.

Today I was able to get through it. It's still a little raw, and you may need to turn up the volume, because I didn't try any correction on the levels.

The Turning of the Tide
© Laura Herman 2006

There's a ship
and she waits out in the bay.
Where she goes,
no-one knows,
and they don't come back to say.
You and I, we never talked about the sea.
I never thought about
you rowing out
and leaving without me.
But there's a knowing
growing
here inside.
I see you yearning
for the turning
of a tide...

There's a stoop in your shoulders
like you're rushing to get older.
Oh, I wish that I could hold you
from this down-hill slide;
take your hand, and still the tremor;
still the rush of time - remember -
oh, remember me
and don't you be
in a hurry
until the turning
of the tide.

Oh, they talk
of a sunrise far away;
of a dawn
far beyond
all the griefs of our brief day.
And you know I'd never want to hold you here.
Still, I wish that you
could hold me through
my loneliness and fear...
I know you're leavin'
even
as you bide.
I see you yearning
for the turning
of a tide...

There's a stoop in your shoulders
like you're rushing to get older.
Oh, I wish that I could hold you
from this down-hill slide;
take your hand, and still the tremor;
still the rush of time - remember -
oh, remember me
and don't you be
in a hurry

until the turning

of the tide.

That Cultural Nerve

Madcap Mum has an interesting post (with a fascinating intense exchange in the comments), which brought to mind a song of mine. This song was inspired by a tense moment at a workplace workshop aimed at fostering intercultural understanding. One of the leaders told us all, in words I don't remember exactly, that we didn't have any roots here; our roots were back in Europe. I don't think he succeeded at creating any understanding at all.

No Place

You tell me that you
have no home.
My people
took it, long ago.
A thousand of us
till these fields
and leave no place
for you to go.

But you tell me that your
roots run deep
and that you belong to this land
as I never can.
And you tell me that my
spirit sleeps.
And it dreams of where it should be
far across the sea . . .

If that is true, I
have no home.
My people
left it, long ago.
A thousand others
till those fields
and leave no place
for me to go.

As the fields around us begin to blow
and the salt crust whitens where the land is low,
"Yes," you say, you could have told us so,
but of course we couldn't know,
with our roots across the ocean . . .

But as we talk here, our
children play.
See them share that dusty schoolyard
where the ground is hard.
Oh, oh, what will their
grandchildren say
when they seek a dwelling place
on this planet's face?

Will they tell their gods, "We
have no home.
Our people
took it, long ago.
They left us poisoned, desert fields.
A thousand years until they heal . . .

They left no place

for us to go.

Highway 47

It still has a sign, but it really doesn't look like a highway anymore. A few years ago it won first place in a contest to select the worst highway in Canada. Now I see that MapQuest gives it a dead end a little bit south of Highway 48 near Peebles, but it's really quite a passable gravel road.

Sometimes gravel is better than pavement. Around the same time that 47 won that contest, we were choosing to drive on the gravel grid road #620 north of Sedley instead of the paved Highway 35 north of Francis because the potholes in the pavement were so bad. I guess 35 was even worse south of Weyburn, where it earned a dishonourable mention in the contest. But between Francis and Qu'Appelle, it was bad enough to inspire a song chorus. I was on my way to PCTC, tight for time, but in high spirits. This was the result.

Doin' Eighty to Sixty
© 2003 Laura Herman

Doin' eighty to sixty to a hundred-and-ten.
You stand on the brakes and then you floor it again.
Gotta keep a clean dash,
beef up your suspension,
carry lots o' spare tires and . . .
pay attention!
Doin' eighty to sixty -
to a hundred-and-ten.

The Strathdees at Calling Lakes Centre

I wasn't going to go. In fact I didn't even let myself read the program description, just skimmed over it and told myself I'd had my quota of music-related travel for the year, or at least for the season. Then my friend Anita called and asked if I was going, since she was wondering if my kids would be keeping hers company there. I said no, and then added as an afterthought, ". . . unless you have a job for me . . ." She said she'd keep it in mind.

I promptly forgot about it. With music festival and a wedding looming, and the Good Friday Cantata towering behind all that, I was not looking for any more things musical. When Anita called and said she'd finally thought of the job for me, it took me a moment to remember what she was talking about. "Sing with the Strathdees" took place last weekend at Calling Lakes Centre, and just a few days ahead of the program, Anita asked me if I would bring my sound system. I said I would make a few calls. I was supposed to be leading worship here on Sunday, but Garth graciously agreed to switch Sundays with me, and that was that.

My "job" was to show up with my sound system, and in exchange I got a weekend of singing, harmonizing, drumming (a new thrill), discovering a wealth of worship songs that don't turn me cold with literalist doctrine (see their website), playing along on my guitar, and of course enjoying the Centre's ever-delightful surroundings and food. I even got to open for the Strathdees (on the spot, really just filling time due to some confusion about the start time for their evening concert). I sang the "truck song" (Anita's request) and Breath Anew.

Breath Anew
Copyright © 2002 by Laura Herman

Startled eyes
filling up with hurt.
I can't take back the breath I poured into those words,
and it left an aching hollow
around my pounding heart.
Yet somehow in the emptiness
I feel
another start...

No matter how I spent my last breath,
God gives me breath anew.
"Child, remember that it's mine,
but use it as you will;
I believe in you."

In the night,
no-one else awake.
No-one to tell me not to worry, that's okay.
So I try to promise better,
ask for guidance in a prayer...
but I sob out my unworthiness,
and God is waiting there...

No matter how I spent my last breath,
God gives me breath anew.
"Child, remember that it's mine,
but use it as you will;
I believe in you."

Breath anew
for the next step of my journey;
breath anew,
no matter where I go.
Too gentle to be heard;
the essence of all words;
when I'm empty, I can't resist the flow...

No matter how I spent my last breath,
God gives me breath anew.
"Child, remember that it's mine,
but use it as you will;
I believe in you.

Take this breath
anew.”

When she introduced me, Anita mentioned that one of my songs is being published in More Voices, the forthcoming supplement to the United Church hymnal Voices United. She is perhaps a little extra excited about that, since I named the melody of the song "Anita" in honour of her. I don't think she realized what an influence she has been, encouraging me to keep playing and writing my songs. This weekend, I discovered one of Anita's influences. I didn't even know she knew the Strathdees, but it turns out that they were music leaders in the church where she was growing up in California. She used to look after their kids and run the slide-projector for the lyrics when they led singing. By the end of this weekend, I felt like I had met the great-godparents of my song. (If you want to watch for it in More Voices, it's titled "Take Up His Song," and was written as a response to Voices United #359 "He Came Singing Love" by Colin Gibson.)

It was a wonderful weekend. Still, there were fleeting moments when I wondered whether I could justify the travel, and frequent moments when I felt out of step with almost all the world. Even among a group of generous, idealistic people, there were jangles of disharmony when the talk turned to protest marches, or when we sang "I would bring gold for buying bread" and I found myself mentally rewriting the lyric to say "wheat for baking bread."

And in all the commotion of another weekend away, I still haven't got my onions and peppers started.

Shall I quit blogging until I have something productive to report?

You Already Hold the Truth

Well, here it is: You Already Hold the Truth, sung, in mp3 format, about 1.8 MB. I'm just itching to type a whole page of excuses and wishes to do better and all, but my sister says "Never apologize," and I almost always kind-of sort-of listen to my sister, so I'll just hush.

The lyrics are here.

By request...

...the lyrics to my latest more-or-less complete song. I hesitate, because I'm sure it's still a work in progress, but I decided it's time for some fresh ears.

It's meant to be sung by a man.

You Already Hold the Truth
© Laura Herman 2006

I looked up from an autograph
and nearly fell into her eyes.
It happens every now and then
and still it gets me by surprise.
I don't want to take it lightly
or tell her how to feel
'cause I've hung my hopes on heroes,
and I know her love is real,
but it's bigger than she's dreaming
and there's more it's meant to be.
I said, "Don't let yourself get hung up
on hanging on to me

'cause you . . .
you already hold the truth.
You hold a little piece of heaven.
Yes, you hold something new -
something no other heart is holding,
something God is still unfolding
and the one who holds that truth
is you."

She looked up from my autograph
and gave a shaky little smile.
It took me back to 'ninety-one,
back when I was still a child,
when I got to meet my hero.
I got to shake his hand,
and he listened to my story,
and he seemed to understand.
I was gonna be just like him.
Could he tell me where to start?
He said, "Don't look to me for answers -
your own are in your heart

'cause you . . .
you already hold the truth.
You hold a little piece of heaven.
Yes, you hold something new -
something no other heart is holding,
something God is still unfolding

in you . . .

you already hold the truth.
You hold a little piece of heaven.
Yes, you hold something new -
something no other heart is holding,
something God is still unfolding
and the one who holds that truth
is you."

"The Land of Bloggerie"

With thanks to Madcap Mum for the title.

A couple of things have got me thinking about the nature of blogging communities. One was the surprising experience of being put on the spot as a sort of "blogging expert" (which I certainly am not, but everything is relative) at the conference I attended last weekend. I found myself describing blogging, not so much from a mechanical how-to angle, but in the sense of the circles of people that develop, and how these circles grow and ebb, intersect and aggregate.

Then there was Madcap Mum's recent post of her fantasies about blog authors being totally different from the personas we see on their blogs.

Finally there was Mary Ann's post, saying she was honoured to see her blog remaining in my sidebar under "Folks with something in common." I was a bit startled, and honoured myself, just to think that having "something in common" with me would be considered an honour! Part of my surprise, though, was due to the fact that Mary Ann and I have not commented back and forth much, so I didn't have any sense that my blog was important to her. How many others read and appreciate it, and never comment? It is a strange feeling. It reminds me of a song I wrote a couple of years ago, when I was asked to sing at the funeral of a woman I scarcely knew.

We gather here:
your family;
neighbours and friends;
community.
Some knew you well;
some said "Hello."
What you meant to them,
you may not know.

For here am I,
a girl from town.
I did not know
you loved my song.

We gather here:
your family;
neighbours and friends;
community.
In thanks and praise,
some heads held high;
some eyes cast down;
we say goodbye.

The life you sang:
the love goes on.
We come to say
we loved your song.

-------

As a side note: the song was warmly received at the funeral - people asked for the music - but the day took a turn to the surreal when I overheard a conversation at the luncheon about how "she loved Laurie's singing." My immediate suspicion was confirmed as the conversation continued: I had been invited to sing by mistake. The beloved singer was Laurie Schmidt, not me. And I love Laurie's singing, too. And I loved my song, but I felt like a fake exposed. Except that I wasn't faking, just misled, and I was only partly exposed, naked to some, and still draped in false honour by others. I couldn't set things straight without spreading embarrassment around. I wanted to sink through the floor. Now in hindsight, I still love the song. It brings to mind that phrase, "God moves in mysterious ways." But it rings a little hollow for me, because I suspect that Laurie really did know that her singing was loved.

I've been writing and writing, and still haven't gotten near the point. I think I want to say something uncomfortable. I want to say that I fear making too many friends out there in the "land of Bloggerie." I fear making new friendships, because, well, how will I let some of the old ones go? In real life there are always excuses to explain the thinning phone calls, the lack of a visit. People move and make new friends closer to home. People take on new activities and don't have time for the old ones, so they don't see the same people anymore. In blogging, the constraints of location and schedule are mostly eliminated. If I stop reading a blog, but I'm still actively posting and commenting elsewhere, my absence might be noticed, and felt.

This probably sounds bizarre to some. I know that many blogs have a rough-and-tumble atmosphere where the message is basically, if you want to keep your feelings safe from hurt, don't comment, or better yet, don't read. I do read and comment on some of those blogs, and I have learned to get along fine, remembering that most of the blows are not aimed personally, or if they are, I can let them go by, knowing that "personally" is a rather distorted construct in a comment thread anyway.

In that rough-and-tumble context, it sounds very odd to be rationing my reading of new blogs for fear of neglecting old friends. Probably I am worrying too much (as usual). I've seen my own blog disappear off a sidebar, and if there was any feeling there at all, it just felt appropriate. I tried imagining how it would feel if a favourite commenter drifted away, and I had the sudden realization that I could probably quit blogging altogether, today, and not be devastated. (Good news, that.) But there are certainly some bloggers I would dearly miss, if they no longer had time for me. There is one right now who has been quiet for a few days, and I don't feel left out, I just quietly wonder if everything is okay.

Ah, community. I think it's time to go and pay some attention to my kids.

For Lonely Folks Only...

...the rest of you please go back to your hugs and egg nog. Laugh and sing for me.

I thought I was okay. In fact, I don't think I even really thought about whether I would be okay. I wondered how it would affect the kids, and I made arrangements for them to be with Garth's family, because they would need that connection. I planned it out so that I would be there Christmas morning (and I will), for their sake; they need a parent there. As usual, I just accepted that I am the organist, so I am here for Christmas Eve. As we moved into the Christmas season, I went to the Co-op Christmas party and laughed and smiled on Garth's behalf. I sang for the seniors at Moose Mountain Lodge. I went to the school Christmas Concert, both afternoon and evening. I made sure the kids got ready for their time with the relatives, and I drove them to the city. And I looked forward to my quiet time, to unwind from all that.

By this morning, I still had quite a bit to do, but at a slower pace, and I did some blogging. Garth phoned from Nepal, and I laughed with him, enjoying his stories and his voice and the humour of his sudden realization that he hadn't bought presents for anyone. Christmas over there is an opportunity for a couple of stores to sell things to a few tourists, and maybe a theme for that week's party at the nightclub, but not a big deal.

After lunch, back at the blogging, I sensed other blogs going quiet around me, as others turned to their families and their feasts. Feeling a teensy bit pathetic, I tore myself away and walked to the church to practise the hymns and prelude music for this evening. I tried to steer myself to happy Christmas songs, but the haunting songs of Advent drew me. When I finished, I walked downtown for one more check on the mailbox.

I turned the corner, at around 5 p.m., and saw Main Street stretched out before me. There was one truck in front of a house near me, but not a single vehicle south of the cenotaph; nothing to block the view of a tranquil corner of the sunset stretching across the southern sky.

The mailbox was empty, too.

I was already sobbing before I reached the post office, and I gasped and sniffled all the way home, half of me longing that someone would rush out of a quiet house to comfort me, and half of me ashamed of my weakness and folly, desperate to reach the privacy that waited behind my door.

I pulled myself together, had a shower, and heard Mom's voice on the answering machine as I came out: "I guess you're out somewhere; we've decided not to come to the service this evening, so we won't see you . . . so, Merry Christmas, and we'll see you . . . Monday!"

Mom's place is where I should be tonight and tomorrow. But the kids need me.

I have done everything I could for everyone else. Now I am doing something just for me. I won't even try to make a happy little greeting for you here. Instead I will give you the song that is running in my heart, the song I wanted to record for you about a week ago, for Blue Christmas, but didn't have time, so all you get are the words, a little late.

The words of the first verse belong to Joseph; of the second, to one of the wise men; and of the third, to me.

One Bright Star
© 2004 Laura Herman

There he lies, asleep in a manger.
Mary rests at last in my arms.
In this dark, lonely place,
how can I keep them safe?
How can I, all alone?

One bright star
shining softly,
and the silence is tender with love.
Through the shimmer
of my teardrops,
one bright star
still softly shines.

As we search, his star goes before us,
but my own hopes dwindle behind.
All the wisdom I gained--
soon the whole world will change.
Do I dare
journey on?

One bright star
shining softly,
and the silence is tender with love.
Through the shimmer
of my teardrops,
one bright star
still softly shines.

Once again the Christ-child is coming.
All the world seems merry, and bright,
but I wander apart,
lift my eyes to the stars,
and there's one . . .
there is one . . .

one bright star
shining softly,
and the silence is tender with love.
Through the shimmer
of my teardrops,
one bright star
still softly shines.

A song for another blogger

Eleutheros, at How Many Miles from Babylon, writes excellent meaty original articles about the empty illusions of modern, affluent society. He has escaped from the Babylonian hall of mirrors (I'm thinking right now of the glass-and-steel canyons of downtown Regina) to a real place where he grows real food, builds real things, and writes real wisdom.

I started to comment on the third post of his Ptocheiopsis series, but I got carried away and decided to bring my lengthy response back here.

From his post:

We moderns fill our days shuffling piles of papers from one side of a desk to the other, transfering electronic documents, inspecting this, coordinating that, certifying and validating this other thing, and in general do nothing more than toss about bags of air to each other.

He goes on to explain that

We do not live by our own work. Our livelihood, the beans on our tables, the shingles over our heads, the clothes on our backs, and the logs (as it were) on our fires all come from three sources:

1) Raping the environment
2) Oppressing the world's poor
3) Accepting poor quality in everything for the false appearance of abundance.

At any rate, it isn't by the sweat of our faces.

I couldn't help thinking of my main source of income, "inspecting things."

Here's a song I wrote a few years back, as I tried to convey to baffled onlookers why I hated my job in environmental consulting:

For the Environment
© 1999 by Laura Herman

Sung to a jolly tune, with a twinkle in the eye, at a frenetic pace.

Oh, I want to work for the environment.
I go to university,
biology and chemistry;
I'm dumping chemicals down the drain
in order to prepare my brain
for solving all the planet's problems,
soon as I can get a job and
do the work I want for the environment.

Chorus:
For the environment;
for the environment.
Oh, can't you see it's all for the environment?
It'll never be a chore,
and I'm always doing more,
more, more, more, more for the environment.

Oh, I drive a truck for the environment.
I spew out greenhouse gases
on my way to key out grasses
that will soon be getting killed
beneath the road they have to build
to reach the well to pump the crude
from which the gasoline is brewed
to fill my tank so I can drive my truck for the environment.

(Chorus)

Oh, I write reports for the environment.
We need reports to help decide
if paper use is justified
and what the paper source should be,
a fibre crop, or forest tree,
and whether we should plow more land
or cut another forest stand
for paper for reports I write for the environment.

(Chorus, faster and faster, to a dramatic drawn out MO-O-ORE...for the environment!)

I was raised by back-to-the-landers: an engineering prof and a stay-at-home mom (not unusual at that time) who happened to have a graduate degree in biology. What was unusual about Mom was that she was raised in Toronto, but she became the farmer, feeding the cattle through the winter and calving them out in early spring while Dad continued to teach at the university two hours' drive away, coming home only on weekends and through the summers, when he worked on building the solar-heated house, and took over the lead farmer role in putting up the hay.

I grew up knowing where my food came from. I went off to save the planet more actively, and eventually realized that it wasn't the planet that needed saving, it was us, needing saving from ourselves. I couldn't fix the system by being part of it. But Mom and Dad's approach didn't seem to work either; their quiet retreat to the land doesn't appear to have made much difference in the way anyone else lives (even their own children; my brother is an urban laborer, my sister an industrial production coordinator with a townhouse and an SUV). And I am stumbling along, trying to be a part of society enough that somebody will care what I think, or enough that my husband doesn't have a breakdown or leave me. He hated living in a little house trailer with a carry-out-the-bucket toilet; I loved it because I never had to worry about unclogging a sewer! (And yes, I carried it out. That was my chore.) Now we live in town, in an ordinary little older house with one flush toilet, and I am still doing some environmental consulting (because I'm good at it, so they keep calling me, and money keeps the peace around here - "money answereth all things," Ecclesiastes 10:19, for you folks who think there are no contradictions in the Bible). I've mentioned before about a dream I had, which got me thinking that feeding people spiritually might help move society away from its insatiable hunger for more, more, more stuff that doesn't feed anyone. Now, after a couple of years of occasional lay preaching, I'm working with a committee of the local church and presbytery to "discern" whether I should be a minister of some sort.

But Eleutheros makes me nervous. I don't want to be a "professional hand-wringer." Can I work even harder, make my tiny token garden into something meaningful and at the same time study through a distance-education program that trains ministers for ordination while they work in part-time ministry in their home community? Can I aspire to be like Paul the tentmaker, within a church where some of the clergy recently wanted to unionize?

******

Update - to be fair to my sister, it's a very nice townhouse. I enjoy its peaceful comforts every time I need a place to sleep in the city. And it's a very fuel-efficient SUV, one of the best, and I understand it's quite necessary for hauling her Paraguayan harp to functions all up and down our crumbling Saskatchewan roads. Which reminds me, I promised her some web design work to let the world know about her lovely harp music. Anyway, I hope I haven't offended. I'm hoping she and the harp will be here for the Christmas Eve service!

Know the cost

We saw large flocks of geese feeding in a field some weeks ago, but I hadn't noticed any since then. Yesterday they were flying over in large "V"s, high up, heading south. That's rather late, isn't it? The fall has been very warm over all.

Phyllis and I had found ourselves walking the same way for a while, and we stopped to look up and listen to their calls. She said, "Can you imagine wanting to shoot one of those?" I replied that I had considered hunting geese, and she gave me a poke and said, "Oh, don't you even think about it." I mentioned that I have hunted deer, but we were coming to the parting of our ways, so the conversation ended there.

With hunting seasons a popular topic on various blogs, and discussions about tighter gun control in the news, I thought I'd post a poem that sums up my feelings on the subject. I sometimes hear this as a sort of bluesy song lyric, taking some liberties with the tune from one verse to the next, but it's not a comfortable genre for me so I haven't worked on it much.

I’ve Got a Rifle
©2003 Laura Herman

You call me a killer.
You call me a killer.

Before you criticize
my way of life,
you'd better check your hands.
You might be holding a knife.

They say the pen is mightier,
mightier than the sword.
Well, I've got a rifle.
You've got a credit card.

On foot in the bush,
knowing there's hard work ahead,
I may bring down a deer
to keep my family fed.

And you walk in to your
favorite restaurant,
look down that menu,
and pick out whatever you want.

They list all the items with
mouth-watering names,
but you don't know where that food
was grown, or how it came.

Tell me how many deer
die in front of semi trucks.
Tell me how many grainfields
no longer have marshes for ducks.

As you break that bread, and
sip that sweet wine,
tell me how far it travelled
from the field and the vine.

And for every calorie in your
vegetarian meal,
tell me how many calories
burned up in fossil fuel.

You don't know much about my life.
You know less about yours.
Thanks for listening, and sorry
if you're not that hungry anymore.

Take a look at that plastic in your hands.
Look at it hard.
Yes, I've got a rifle.
You've got a credit card.

I don't actually have a rifle, by the way, in case you're thinking of reporting me. I took firearm safety when I was a teenager. After we went to the shooting range, one of the parents told my mom, "If you're as good a shot as she is, she'll never have a chance at a boyfriend. You'll just sit up on that hill and pick them off!" But life was very hectic during that year when I could have got my possession license just by applying, and ever since then, I just haven't got around to taking the test. One of these years...

Happy Birthday Saskatchewan

As I write this, I assume that the last smoke from the fireworks is drifting away, and the happy people are walking back to their cars, the barn dance, or whatever they are doing for the rest of this "party-of-the-century" evening. I spent the early part of the evening biking south to Perry's Hill and lingering there for awhile watching the sunset and the changing hues of the landscape, and listening to a combine working nearby.

In honour of the big party, I offer you a link to the official centennial song, "Saskatchewan, We Love This Place!" by Stan Garchinski.

In honour of the farmers who couldn't be there, I offer you the lyrics for one of my own songs.

Saskatchewan Song
© 2004 Laura Herman

They were standing by the field in late September
as the sun turned all the stubble into gold.
He said, "Son, I don't know where you'll be
at the end of harvest next year.
I suppose you're going to want to hit the road.
I don't blame you if you're itching to be gone
but if you stay, you'll do okay,
here in Saskatchewan,

because we reach
for a farther off horizon.
We still count the stars that others cannot see.
We say, 'Hey, there's always next year,'
and we laugh, and lend a hand.
That's the way this land has brought us up to be.

Still, if you decide to go, we'll be here for you
and you know we'll help in any way we can.
Sure, we always hoped you'd take the farm
but you gotta chase your own dreams,
and no matter what they are, we'll understand.
Son, I know there's lots of places far beyond
that sure could use a boy like you,
raised in Saskatchewan,

because we reach
for a farther off horizon.
We still count the stars that others cannot see.
We say, 'Hey, there's always next year,'
and we laugh, and lend a hand.
That's the way this land has brought us up to be.
The way Saskatchewan has brought us up to be.

They were standing by the field in late September
and the sun turned all
the stubble
into gold...