Music Never Dies

 

fog
Credit: Favim

~*~

Abandoned in the woods of my mind

The music I used to make.

The songs I used to sing.

The choral symphonies and

A cappella wonders that resonated

So deeply at the time I could never

Imagine my life without them.

Then life happened.

A new chapter unfolded.

A change of direction.

The company of composers

Receded to the heart chamber ~

Gone, but not forgotten

So that when the music played again

Every note; ever nuance

Every syllabic turn

Emerged from the foggy forest of my mind

To live and lighten again.

The pleasure of musical moments

Shared and memories of

Glorious music made live as though

Created yesterday.

But then, I realize, the music we inhabit

Never dies ~ it simply dwells

And resonates in every

Cell of our being to live another

Day, to uplift or

Devour the spirit according to

Our desire. Of course, only the

Heart knows the

Difference.

~*~

Music has always been an important part of my life.

I’m a singer. A soprano. Not of the operatic variety ~ that’s been done in my family. No, I’m a soprano hybrid, I guess I’d say. A little bit of everything.

For 12 years I sang second soprano in the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir ~ Toronto’s esteemed symphonic chorus ~ and loved every minute of it. The rehearsals, the performances, the way 180 people from different walks of life could all come together and create music magic together. Swept away by Brahms, Mozart, Beethoven, Faure, Vaughan Williams, Gabrieli and so many more of the classical and modern repertoire ~ for those moments our troubles disappeared as we focused our minds and hearts on giving voice to music that never dies.

I sang Handel’s Messiah 60-plus times. I know the soprano line (solo and choral) in my sleep. Every Christmas we go to hear the Choir and symphony perform this incredible oratorio and the part of my heart where this slice of heaven dwells opens up and I feel the joy of its presence in my life once more.

And this is so for many, many more wonders of the choral repertoire I had the privilege to perform.

But it doesn’t stop there.

All the music I’ve ever experienced in my life ~ opera, jazz, country, rock, blues, bluegrass, folk, R&B ~ resonates within and reflects who I am.

To me, the type of music we invite in to inhabit our world is every bit as important as the books we read and the people we choose to associate with. It colours who we are and our life experience.

I have heard of people who choose to live their lives without music and I am, frankly, floored by this notion. Still, each of us must walk their own path and live according to the dictates of our own hearts.

Among the music I miss singing the most is a cappella. To me, little can match the purest form of the human voice. “Hear My Prayer, O Lord” by English Baroque composer, Henry Purcell (1659-1695) has long been one of my favourite a cappella pieces, and the first time I sang it with the Mendelssohn Choir it moved me to tears. If you would like to experience this short piece, click here. It’s lovely and meditative for a Sunday morning.

I realize it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I love it. It’s part of who I am and one of those things that reminds me how good it is to be alive.

And as long as I am alive this music will live in me.

Thanks for stopping by …

Dorothy

~*~

1477384_696513200380722_443439577_nPrompted by Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday.

©Dorothy Chiotti … Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

Cypress Sunset

Cypress

There, upon a Tuscan Hill,

Survey the cypress, tall and still

Saluting to the burning sky

As setting sun to all says “Arrivederci!”

~*~

Something a little quirky courtesy of my recent trip to Italia.

Thanks for stopping by …

Dorothy

©Dorothy Chiotti … Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

 

 

Night Terror(ist)

Night Light

~*~

Lights out …

Lurking,

Shadow dweller.

Haunting and predatory.

In the night

You cross the boundary.

Advance.

Faceless, but not

Formless.

Familiar.

Menacing.

Paralysis overwhelms.

Screams,

But no sound.

Terror’s creep keeps creeping.

Shallow, my breath.

*

{Breathe.}

*

Thoughts form.

{Be different.}

Words speak.

Low. Monotone.

Controlled, somehow.

“What do you want?”

I ask.

Silence.

Again.

“What do you want?”

Hovering o’er me,

Your whispered, jumbled words

Confuse; are

Meaningless.

Not even you are sure

Why it is you haunt

Me.

Silence.

“No …”

I say, calm.

Silence, then

A shift.

“I’m sorry,”

You say, contrite.

Your words surprise.

My breath then caught

By your tender,

Unexpected kiss

Upon my cheek

As you retreat.

Gone ~

Forever into the shadows.

Silence.

Lights on …

{Breathe}

~*~

This seems rather dark following my last post.

However without this, I hope, final dream-state encounter with the Night Terror(ist) who has haunted me at various times of my life and driven me to waking up in a full blown panic, my previous post What Changed? would not exist.

Thanks for stopping by …

Dorothy

~*~

©Dorothy Chiotti … Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

 

 

What Changed?

 

Balloon

~*~

My world ~

Breath by breath

An ever-expanding,

Colour-full balloon of

Possibility.

Easing toward divine potential.

What changed?

Me.

~*~

Took me a long time and a lot of personal work to begin to feel this way.

It hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it.

And, the journey continues …

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy

©Dorothy Chiotti … Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014

 

After The Thrill Is Gone … Maybe

fireworks

“These people, who launch fireworks like every weekend is the fourth of July, just don’t get it, do they?” Sarah leapt from her chair, a look of worry planted in her eyes.

“What’s that?” Michael asked in all innocence. “I don’t hear anything.”

Sarah eyeballed him. “Of course you don’t. It hasn’t started yet. Just wait.”

Michael focused his attention back on the TV and the ninth inning of a cliffhanger Sarah didn’t get.

“Michael!”

The room fell silent as Michael, aware there was no way to side step his young wife’s anxiety, finally hit “mute” and turned to listen. The winning run had been scored. He could relax.

He sighed. “I wish I understood. Tell me.”

Sarah sat beside him on the two-seater burgundy leather sofa. She checked the time on the clock above the mantle and reached for her husband’s hand. Any minute now, the not-so-magic hour of 10 p.m. would be marked.

“Listen.”

More silence. Then …

Boom! Bang! Whistle! Boom! Boom! Boom!

… for ten solid minutes the still magic of a summer’s evening was a bombast of cannon and shot from some neighbour’s yard somewhere down the street.

After a final flourish it was all over, the night its peaceful self once more.

Sarah spoke.

“Do you realize that every Saturday night since Memorial Day someone, somewhere in our small town has bombarded the air with this stuff. In the process, something designed to be magical has become annoying instead. The thrill is gone.” She stood and walked over to the window. “Never mind the fact we can’t even see the damn sparks fly, but we must listen to it, every weekend because apparently a summer Saturday night is incomplete without noise.” Sarah closed the window and continued staring into the darkness. “I dread Saturday nights now. Instead of being happy for other people’s festive happiness, my teeth grate and blood boils because yet again the silence has been needlessly disturbed. I don’t know how Maggie and Steve next door manage their tiny triplets with all this noise going on. They must have to shut every window in the house which, frankly, isn’t fair.”

Michael watched Sarah closely. The sparkle of her heightened awareness not lost on him. He slowly flipped the TV remote in his hand, over and over. He knew his young, sensitive wife was not yet finished talking.

“And does anyone even consider the trauma inflicted on the tiny animals who must endure this unnatural disruption?  Poor babies. The birds; squirrels; chipmunks; cats; dogs must all tuck themselves away from the horror of it.” Sarah took a breath. “Mrs. McGregor across the street says her cocker spaniel, Rupert, hides under the bed every time a thunderstorm rolls through, never mind the worried look he gets in his eye and the chair he hinds behind when the fireworks start cracking. It’s traumatizing for the little ones, really it is … ” she paused, “and downright bloody annoying for the rest of us who prefer a quiet evening in on the weekend.”

“Isn’t that what Sundays are for?” Michael responded, not meaning to sound flippant.

Sarah turned and sent him a withered look of warning.

Michael smiled. He knew she was simply letting off steam.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “I know how we can have our own display of fireworks … and not disturb the neighbours … maybe.” He winked.

Sarah felt a thrill and smiled back.

“Of course you do …”

~*~

1477384_696513200380722_443439577_nMy response to Kellie Elmore’s image prompt for this week Free Write Friday.

Thanks for visiting …

Dorothy

©Dorothy Chiotti … Aimwell CreativeWorks 2014