I just bought a mandolin. Spruce on the top, maple on the bottom. When a friend lent me one I fell in love with it. I liked the old fashion sound, the elegant feel, and that it sat so nicely on my lap, like a beloved dog. When I put it up for the day, it rests next to my small collection of flutes and guitars from around the world.
Music has always been magical for me. And now I find instruments are as well. Sentient beings with voices and potential, nudging me to pick them up, to hold them, to find within them something that hasn't been released.
Listening so deeply one discovers messages and meaning beyond the surface of our daily lives. This is what all art is about isn't it? A resource for tapping into what has been previously unseen and unheard; a swath of sounds and colors connecting us to our deeper selves; a discipline of rhythm and openness that reminds us of our origins in star dust; the potential for harmony and beauty, even if simple and unperfected, trumps material desires every time.
Here's a poem that says something about all this:
The day before April, alone alone
I walked in the woods
And I sat on a stone.
I sat on a broad stone and sang to the birds.
The tune was God's making
But I made the words.
Mary Caroline Davies