All Perfect Light and Promises

cloud 1Delight!

Even the word is delightful — to my ears, at any rate. It conjures images of warm golden sunbeams, of huge and happy smiles, and sounds of burbling streams and joyful laughter. It’s also what I have chosen to focus on this year: to notice the experiences and things that bring me moments of delight.

My inspiration for embarking on this project came from listening to Krista Tippett’s podcast On Being, when she interviewed the American poet Ross Gay about his Book of Delights. In that collection — which I have not yet read, but hope to soon — Gay presents a series of short essays written just about every day over the course of a year about what brought him delight.

Challenge accepted, I thought. What a wonderful way to find positive things in and about my life. And so, I decided to start looking more carefully at interactions and experiences I might have otherwise tuned out to, or have previously relegated to the purlieu of the mundane.

Beginning my quest, I discovered that the word delight has a Latin derivation from the verb delectare, meaning “to charm”, which is unsurprising since delightful moments tend to spring from things we find enchanting. These moments are probably happening around us all the time — if we only take the time to observe them.

My first moment of delight came came very early in the New Year, shortly after I had watched the first half of the documentary Mystify: Michael Hutchence. Not only did the film remind me how brilliantly mesmerising a frontman Hutchence was, but it also prompted me to listen to some INXS. I found myself travelling down an aural memory lane, listening to the soundtrack of my childhood, when “New Sensations” started playing.

I suspect it is just about impossible not to sing along and dance to that song. It’s infectiously upbeat and in your face (in a good way), and it’s also got great lyrics. I’ve heard it hundreds of times in my life, but this time — which was sometime around New Year’s Day — one line in particular popped out at me and made me pause (despite the fact I may have been in full raucous singing along/daggy dancing mode at the time).

All perfect light and promises. 

I know that light. I’ve written about it before, some five years ago now, because I love it so much, just as surely as I love the sun rising over the sea.

cloud 2But it also struck me, in that moment, that it summed up my way of looking at the beginning of 2020, in all its bright shiny newness and with all my bold resolutions.

These moments of delight really are everywhere. They’re in songlines and skylines, in the cheerful chattering of my children, in the sinuous sprawl of our cat in the sun, in the first sip of hot Earl Grey tea in the early morning, in the scent of sweet peas and in the smell of rain and even in the stars.

Especially in the stars.

May 2020 be a year of delight for us all.

 

 

 

Swings and Roundabouts

It always surprises me that there are certain things in my life that I return to, over and over again.  I suppose I really shouldn’t find it so astonishing — given that I do come back to them, repeatedly, and without fail.  But when I do revisit something from the past, usually from my childhood, I feel like I have stumbled into some kind of magical world.

There is a subtle sense of homecoming in such moments, something that always calls to mind T S Eliot’s lines from Little Gidding:

 

Exploration

Eliot’s poetry is one thing that I periodically return to. Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea books are another. And lately, I have come back, once again, to classical music.

ViolinI have mentioned before that I grew up in a household where classical music reigned supreme, with a small smattering of jazz thrown in every now and then (most often on the weekends). My parents always supported me musically, and as a child I learned to play the violin, piano, and flute reasonably well. I even got pretty good at the recorder — a bit beyond your average dribble-stick Hot Cross Buns playing primary school student repertoire — and played either descant or treble in a recorder quartet.

FluteLater, with the encouragement of a wonderful teacher who let me take home various school instruments over the holidays, I taught myself clarinet. That teacher was always challenging me, inviting me to audition for an all city concert band I never thought I would get into, then pushing me further by naming me Principal Flute player of that ensemble — never doubting that I was capable of leading my section — and handing me a piccolo, which I’d never played before, with an offhand remark along the lines of, “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up in no time; just get yourself a book of Irish folk tunes and you’ll be fine.”

Perhaps this is why classical music feels like home to me, and that I come back to it time and again: for me, it is associated with people who have supported me, had my back, and treated me with the assumption that I would succeed.

As I write this, I am listening to Nigel Kennedy’s recording of Ralph Vaughan Williams’ The Lark Ascending. It is familiar, it is comforting.  And, to me, it is not merely beautiful — it is sublime.

It is also solace, and an entry into an ethereal world: a place of soaring, sprialling birdsong, of tangled hedgerows and verdant meadows, of arching blue skies and gentle summer breezes.

If you’d like to hear it yourself, you can listen to it here, and fly away.

meadow