A sermon by Grace Lewis-McLaren
For
To live is to dance with an unknown partner whose steps we can never wholly predict, to improvise within a field of forces whose shifting qualities we might feel as they play across our skin, or as they pulse between our cells, yet whose ultimate nature we can never entirely grasp or possess in thought. Co-evolved with the many other forms of sensitivity and sentience that constitute this earthly world, there can be no question of humankind ever attaining an exhaustive knowledge of the real. For, to the extent that we acknowledge our existence as one of the earth’s creatures, we forfeit the pretense of a disembodied “view from outside” that might some day finally fathom and figure out every aspect of the world’s workings.
These are the words of David Abram, ecologist, author, and performance artist. He is the author of “The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-than-Human World.” This is a loaded paragraph, and I’d like to read it again.
I’m sure each of us has had the frustrating, sometimes terrifying experience of being expected to write something, being faced with a time certain for its completion, and staring at the blank sheet of paper or vacant computer screen. Let me assure you this happens to composers, too.
Oh yes, there have been times when a text or a tune simply bubbled up and it was all I could do to get it on the paper. Those times have been wonderful gifts, and I am grateful when they have happened.
But somehow, the WAY to make them happen is not under my control. And the conditions under which those “bubble up” moments occur are strange and singular. They tend to occur when I’m deeply engaged in something else. It is disconcerting to be besieged by a creative gem when I’m driving, or in the midst of an airport, or out weeding the carrots. But attention must be paid – and if it is an idea really worth keeping, I figure I’ll somehow find a way to hang on to enough for later reconstruction.
But do creative gems bubble up when I’m ready for them? When I’m facing that blank page? When it would be convenient? No. Not likely.
For me there is an unknown, unpredictable, un-graspable element operating here. It is like wisps of morning ground-fog. You know, if you look out across a meadow before the sun is very high, sometimes you see those luminous vapors. They are beautiful. They are elusive.
Sure, I can do my part to gather the elements together and set up the best possible working conditions for myself. I can go get another cup of coffee. I can scribble out a few phrases, maybe a couple key words, perhaps go to the piano and ramble through an idea or two. Still, my most productive move might be going out to the garden and weeding the carrots. And that’s no guarantee. The elusive spark will not be coerced. It will not be cornered.
I must forfeit the pretense of understanding how this works. I need to let go of my attempt be in control.
In nearly 70 years of life, I’ve accrued a variety of experiences that add up and become useful, sometimes in unexpected ways. It is my responsibility to practice what has been given to me, to keep the skills sharpened through use. But this is no guarantee of inspiration. That’s a humbling piece of reality.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to approach the elusive spiritual element of music-writing as something holy – something requiring utmost respect and awe.
Theologian Rudolf Otto wrote a book titled “The Idea of the Holy” in which he attempted to define the concept of holiness. Though published back in 1923, this book is still found in most ministers’ libraries. Otto speaks of the holy as mysterious, tremendous, and fascinating. He also writes that it cannot be taught – “. . . it can only be evoked, awakened in the mind; as everything that comes of the spirit must be awakened.”
Last Spring Terrie Harmon asked me if I’d consider taking on a commission for a Hymn to Silence. It was to be a birthday gift to a teacher who leads spiritual retreats, a person for whom silence is highly, highly valued.
A Hymn to Silence. How, I wondered, would that possibly work? Terrie didn’t know. I didn’t know. A Hymn to Silence. Hmmm.
Terrie supplied me with many references, so I had some material to digest. And I made some attempts to organize ideas. But nothing was working. The words I wrote looked silly. They weren’t right. My preliminary ideas for melody lines were stilted, contrived. Many crumpled sheets of paper later, I thought perhaps this was a fruitless project. Maybe it wasn’t going to happen. I gathered up the material Terrie had given me and set it aside.
So far the Hymn to Silence was just the second part: silence.
Probably not while weeding the carrots, but some time when I wasn’t paying particular attention, something stirred: no words, just a syllable on which a voice could breathe a soft tone – like a sigh – and then a concept opened for me. The blank paper began to receive a few notes. Still unsure of where it was going, I had something I could begin to mold. Three voices and no accompaniment – that’s what made the spare sound I wanted. Like those luminous wisps of morning ground fog, the ideas showed themselves just long enough.
Now, I have one of those ergonomic seats at my computer desk so I’m actually kneeling when I’m working there. It has occurred to me that this is th