sound

“A person’s music is seen as a means of restoring the soul,
as well as confused and discordant bodily afflictions,
to the harmonic proportions that it shares
with the world soul of the cosmos.”

~ Plato, The Timaeus

While pandemic life has grounded elaborate plans and ambitions, simple attainments are also made difficult. Now thinking back through eight months of triage, distancing, and working amidst bunkering, I make note of the narrowed horizons. My optimistic travel plans drawn up last winter were humbled into crosstown errands. Indeed, I’m merely one of countless many that are scaled down to the brass tacks of personal safety and the earning of sustenance- all within the context of isolation. Hopefully it will not become necessary to have to choose between the two vital aspects of health and employment. It takes as much vigilance and resourcefulness to stay productive as it does to keep well. But as time irretrievably passes, though it may appear as such, quite clearly nothing stands still. Time continues cascading over all the stopped progress. There is so much to accomplish, but very few things can actually be done. The focus is survival.

Even at the outset of these times of lockdowns and related hardships, I noticed the prevalence of contrasts. As social malevolence manifested and broadcast itself, those who chose generosity emerged as bright exceptions. Humanity scrambles between the extremes of exploitation and mercy, while the natural world keeps vigil. And in this portion of my own vigil, as I keep watch in this night, my thoughts turn to the place held by sound in these times. Just as I recall the completely silent skies immediately after the 11th of September 2001, the first and most eerie aspect I noticed as the world began locking down in March was the desolate quiet of the streets.

The absence of sound is cause for notice, and so is the welcome presence of assuring sound. But this is surely not to say that quiet cannot be comforting. Just as there are welcoming forms of silence, there are also pleasant sounds. Several nights ago, the transformation into the late-autumn became pronouncedly audible to me, as I was awakened by wind and rainstorm-rattling windows. It was a reminder of sounds I’ve always liked. Soothing sounds provide an effect resembling fresh air. It’s a calming, accompanying presence. Indeed, not all sounds have these properties- even in the same categories. Radio, a lifelong companion, can be as much of a conduit of good reminders and wonder as it can be a prism of abrasion. A few weeks ago, I listened to Schumann’s Forest Scenes for the first time, and was so taken by the music and its performance that I stopped working so that I could better savour the sounds. I have a rather irrational habit of looking at the radio, when I want listen more clearly; I looked and listened. This particular radio station does not always broadcast music I find appealing. Normally, it’s a kitchen sink of classical pop: lots of martial-sounding rat-a-tat-tat “classical” orchestral music- regardless of time of day or night. Contrasting the sounds that I find to be sweet and textural- with cellos, harmonies, and counterpoint- are the pieces I call “music that needs to be oiled.” That latter category speaks for sounds that are scratchy, whining, and cacophonous that cause me to switch stations- or just choose some silence. It doesn’t make sense to opt for more annoyances than what already exists, especially in this chaotic era.

Pythagoras famously said, “Either be silent, or say something better than silence.” And by my lights, in this context, better is to say: consoling, life-giving, or perhaps even constructive. Surely a subjective and highly individualized definition. The quiet at five in the morning, with my coffee and breviary, is an expectant silence pointed toward newness and hope. A sound as subtle as the dulcet hiss of cars passing along my street is something I find soothing. So is the wind through the trees, familiar soft voices, birds, the scribing of my writing on paper, my percolator that converts sound into aroma, my landlady’s footsteps from upstairs, and foghorns from the waterfront. Part of why I’ve always loved walking and perching at the ocean’s edge, aside from the vistas, are the sounds of the water. The tides will determine the forces of crashing waves, along open seas. Then there are the sheltered inlets, with much quieter stirrings. With eyes closed, my imaginings are of an affectionate ladling of a large seaweed soup, the rounded stones clacking under the waters’ pulling. Such sounds transcend pandemics and hardships. Beyond material provisions, resourcing myself also includes knowing where to find consoling sounds.

The light and weather of November suddenly brought to mind one particular long-distance road trip I made. Having to cover 1300 miles in 2 days, I drove more than 750 miles in a straight shot, with just 3 brief fuel stops. The highways between western New York State and northeastern Ohio were imperiled by a fierce winter storm, but I reduced speed and stayed my course. I kept the windows defrosted and the radio on, gripping the steering wheel and bonding with my rental car. Finally reaching my planned destination, parking in a snow drift next to a hotel and shutting off the engine, I instinctively closed my eyes. The driving was intense and my catharsis was equally pronounced. Walking to a nearby diner to decompress and replenish, the restless fatigue was later finally solved when I saw that my small hotel room had a real bathtub. Part of that perfectly consoling and soapy hot bath was in the sound of the water, reminding me of home, while the winter weather continued pelting at the windows. Before retaking the road the next morning, I dined with fellow guests in the breakfast room.

The hotel, on the following morning.

Sharing meals with strangers in a common room, replete with convivial sounds of voices and crockery, is now an impossible enjoyment. Surviving the pandemic has brought about alienation from our travels and from one another. The timbres and tones of humanity are severely curtailed. The last time I was compressed in a crowd was in late-February at Boston’s North Station. My thoughts were not occupied with contagion, but rather with getting a good seat on the train. Nobody would’ve expected that crowd noises would become something rarified. And so rarified that when major league sports resumed to play their abnormal and abbreviated seasons, they would be doing that in empty arenas against the backdrop of canned crowd noises (to audiences of cardboard photos of spectators). Listening to some of the baseball games on the radio had me wondering about broadcast technicians splicing together enough sounds of sports fans to create many hours of banal background noise. What an odd testament to the greater oddness and unreality of isolation. It also attests to how important pleasant and assuring sounds are to so many, reminding us of our wishes. We search for comforts while carrying a nostalgia for a better future. Within the need to be resourced for survival is our comprehension of sound: choosing away from what injures the soul- as much as possible- and choosing toward strength and inspiration.

travel advisory

“When thou dost purpose aught, within thy power,
Be sure to do it, though it be but small:
Constancy knits the bones, and makes us stour
When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall.”

~ George Herbert, Conduct


Routines, habits, and their observation have had their places in these pages. During this season, I'm reminded of distinctions between perfunctory and passion. As children, many of us recall fretting about what I call the haftas and the wannas. This is to say when what has to be accomplished obstructs what is so much more desirable. By adolescence, I'd begun to learn the discipline of attacking the haftas with gusto, looking forward to enjoying the wannas, once I’d successfully reach those hospitable shores. When certain obligations tend to require dragging my will and tail, they may be done according to the usual high standards, notwithstanding a few wreckingball swings through opaque reluctance. Then there are other matters, often more demanding than quotidian obligations, that I regularly seem to find the requisite energy to pursue. Seeking out new ideas and inspiration is essentially congruent to my pilgrimage travels. A search is in progress, and there isn’t a moment to be lost.

When we cannot choose enough details in our adventures, we may at least convert conditions into enlightening experiences. It is exceedingly worthwhile to continue discovering meaning and expression amidst the ephemeral. Intrinsic to the spiritual life is an insistence upon finding what is good in unconducive times. Search for pearls in the desert, and for the worthy in the wastelands. And day after day, the energy to persevere must be found. Recently, I was reminded once more of the benefits found in good company. Early one Saturday morning was a breakfast with one group of friends, and dinner that evening was still another meal with yet another group of friends. Exchanging stories amounted to discoveries of goodness I might not have otherwise noticed. Granted, much of the talk referred to these difficult times and how no end is in sight. Yet we continue and we carry on with cheer. Walking home, I wondered if the cheer is necessarily contingent upon any conditions. The quest for one’s passions may indeed be intensified by adversities. With this in mind, the Lenten journey implies an insistence upon discerning goodness and not permitting the negatory to implant lasting impressions.

The call of the Spirit to the soul is surely not aimless. Inquiry implies discovery. We continue to search because we continue to find, and thus driven onward. Even in my lesser moments, there is nothing more appealing than to aspire and continue. Now I’m remembering the portion of John’s gospel in which many perplexed disciples have drawn back from Christ, unwilling to risk another ounce of trust. Too much looks too frighteningly out of control. At this crossroads, Simon Peter spoke the immortal “to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” As I can only choose to journey onward, in a sense I haven’t a choice. What else could I do, having absorbed the words and the Spirit that speak directly to my condition, even the evidence of things unseen. We search because we’ve discovered, and we find because we’ve been recognized. It is as though one must hope and strive; beyond the precipice there is no choice- turning back has lost its lure. It may appear that we are driving our explorations, but indeed the source is as palpable as it is covert. Perhaps that explains an individual’s relentless quest for their creation, their origins, their purposes.

Though driven forward, the spiritual voyager is somehow both navigator and passenger. And the journey is not reluctantly pursued: surely more wanna than hafta- if anything, a vital gotta. The pursuit of holiness and knowledge ironically evolves into something less self-centered and more outward-looking. The grand voyage becomes a great travel with waystations for appreciation of detailed instances and sweeping landscapes alike. My work as an archivist reminds me that understanding must rely upon context, and that events and observations take shape in a developing succession. Like the search to discover, questions and answers evolve in an organic rotation such that a stumbling soul derives just enough reinforced direction to be able to advance. The desire to proceed and learn might be considered a grace, a gift recognized through an enjoyment of the cultivating continuum. What else could I do, but be grateful for the persistence to discover and the appetite for the light of the Spirit.

Last week, I participated in a pilgrimage gathering in Montréal, as a musician, for the twelfth consecutive year. Between there, here, and many points farther afield, I’ve made countless similar travels over tens of thousands of miles- often in challenging driving conditions, always at my own expenses, and each single time an invigorating joy. The adventures are golden occasions, replete with conviviality and insight. In a discussion, Brother Emile of Taizé spoke about daring to live by a trusting faith, instead of being driven by fearfulness. “Plus profond du mal, il y a la bonté,” he added- meaning that far deeper and more powerful than hardship, there is goodness. He put forth an open sentence that his prior liked to ask: “When we set forth with a trusting heart...” It is a statement for the listener to complete. I pencilled these notes at my music stand, sometimes using the top of my classical guitar as a support. The road home included a visibility-blocking snowstorm. It was not surprising, and I had no regrets- even as I had to slowly drive through the adverse conditions. Perhaps a heart that trusts can become capable of sculpting circumstances into worthwhile adventures. The great challenge is to do so consistently and meaningfully.

The image below is the song list for the Taizé Pilgrimage of Trust, held in Montreal in 2007 (I always write down the music lists in my journal!). This unusally large gathering was broadcast on the radio. The prior, Brother Aloïs of Taizé (France) spoke to all in attendance, as well as Cardinal Jean-Claude Turcotte (Montréal).

pilgrim steps

“...that small, interior world widened
as I learned its names and its boundaries;
as I discovered new refuges...”

~ Dylan Thomas, Quite Early One Morning.

My elementary school, Public School No. 13









Above: Saint Patrick's Cathedral- a place of quiet respite on 5th Avenue.







Looking at class photos and trading stories with the current and retired principals at P.S. 13. I had read a portion of my journal to a group of school administrators. The photo immediately below shows the P.S. 13 schoolyard.



Entering one of the classrooms in which I'd been a pupil, to speak to the children.












Taizé at a New York City church : the view from my music stand.






Dylan Thomas, visiting from Wales, read and staged his works at this theatre in Greenwich Village.




The Minetta Tavern was a favorite of many writers, including Thomas and his good friend e.e. cummings.





The Church of Saint Luke in the Fields was the place of Dylan Thomas' funeral (1953). The church's first pastor, in 1820, was Clement Clarke Moore, the original namesake of P.S. 13.

“And one man’s year is like the country of a cloud,
mapped on the sky, that soon will vanish into the watery,
ordered wastes, into the spinning rule,
into the dark which is light.
Now the cloud is flying, very slowly, out of sight,
and I can remember all of that voyaging geography.”

~ Dylan Thomas, The Crumbs of One Man’s Year

common ground field notes

“Happy those who with their hands
bring to harvest the fruits of earth.
Blessed are we to share this food
served with loving care and faithfulness.
May we strive to share with those
whose hunger knows no end.
With thanksgiving let us be as good as God
for others.”

~ Monks of Weston Priory - table grace before meals.


Parallel to summer’s transition into autumn is the season of harvest. In northern New England, the liminal fall season is swift and bright. Successions of agricultural fairs happen throughout the region, remaining very popular with all ages. In the State of Maine, some of the largest country fairs occur as early as the first of August- such as the Skowhegan State Fair, which is nearly 200 years old. Though sharing many similarities, no two fairs are alike; they vary in dimension and in their emphases. For countless Mainers and visitors to Maine, the Common Ground Fair best represents the fruits of fall. Sponsored by the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association (MOFGA), which is 40 years old this year, the fair’s popularity has much to do with its uniqueness.

Over the years, the Common Ground Fair has grown into its own 200-acre fairgrounds (near the town of Unity, Maine), continuing to draw exhibitors who cultivate organic farms, raise free-range farm animals, and produce energy-saving structures and household goods. Woven into these annual events are musical and educational events, instructional demonstrations of practical skills, and children’s festivities. Consistent with the fair’s ambience, there are no carnival rides and all the food is locally grown. Instead of cotton candy, there are maple-sugared peanuts- and honey-sweetened lemonade. One year, I had a chance to taste blueberry butter which was savory and memorable! Another year, I got to try my hand at an apple cider press. This year, realizing how many times I’ve gone to the Common Ground Fair, I decided to make some new photographs to go with some I’d made on my earliest visits. When we find that we’ve created traditions of our own, then we can connect personal historic reference points. Photographing a country fair, in its entirety, would take many dozens of pictures; there just isn’t enough space! As well, within so much visual interest, by making a place one’s “own,” the eye is drawn to what it most favors. Here are a few images:

I made the 2 photos below in 1982, as an aspiring teen art student!

At the heart of an agricultural fair, there is livestock and produce. Demonstrations include oxen-pulls, sheep-shearing, horse shows, and the very popular sheep dog events. In the photo immediately above, the sign near the potato baskets reads, “Raised in Atkinson Maine on land that has been free of all chemicals for 25 years.”

Portland's Big Sky Bakery was at the fair, with herbal spiced bread.

Having a ready notebook at the fair is exceedingly useful. A palm-sized Field Notes journal perfectly suits the occasion. There are recipes to record, quotations from discussions and speakers to note, addresses to copy down, and in between browsing there are fresh thoughts to harvest. Human countenances bright with autumn light. Among the old friends I see at the Common Ground Fair, there are always inspiring ideas that would be more elusive in the city. Briny, salty, and paved Portland is nicely balanced by pine, sweetgrass, and earthen Waldo County.

The following set of photos shows an aspect of great enjoyment at the fair: the sharing of skills. The original organizers of the fair saw the event as a way to compare notes about organic farming and gardening. Mentoring also finds its place by way of imparting time-honored ways of bread baking, stenciling, furniture and canoe building, producing yarn, and numerous additional skills. These are just a few. One year, while watching a blacksmith’s demonstration, I got the idea to do my own version of this type of delivery- with bookbinding- and have followed through at many conferences and book festivals.

Showing us all how it's done, country fair style.
Are you taking notes?

To go with the fair’s fascinating and informative demos, a major draw to Common Ground is the music. At the gates of the fairgrounds, the large signboards inform visitors of events and their respective locations. I look for the music performances and write down times and tents. Over the years, I’ve enjoyed great folk music by local acts, such as Ti-Acadie, the Gawler Family, Gordon Bok, Castlebay, and Crooked Stovepipe. Then there are the musicians who are not on the schedule- playing their instruments around the fairgrounds and adding to the sum of the day’s colors.

Photo above is from 1982; photo below is from last week.







Above, members of the Gawler Family;
below, a hymn-sing after a shape-note lesson.

Homemade wares for sale include soaps, crafts, tools, jewelry, art works, baskets, and furniture. A cottage business called Alder Stream custom-produces backpacks. I first saw these at last year’s Common Ground Fair- dutifully writing down the details in my notebook. This time, I decided to order one, and with Jane Barron’s patient assistance we looked over materials and took some measurements. By next month, my handmade backpack will be mailed to me- complete with side pockets for camera gear, and a vertical interior pocket made to the size of an A5 notebook. And a water-resistant liner. A writer’s special, Jane added, and a treasure for future journeys. Amidst cultivated crops, traditions are renewed, sources are sown, and more shall be written.