A world of glorious colors, sounds, and rhythms

My long-ago girlfriend, Sherry, finally won me over.

I remember distant times when I could hardly wait for my girlfriend to get home so I could re-play the latest singer-songwriter album I found that moved me nearly to tears; I was always scouring the bins of our favorite record stores, occasionally finding gems that we guarded selfishly.

Sherry listened to a variety of musical styles, but was adamant in her disdain for one: country western ballads. “My hound up and run away in Papa’s new Ford F-150,” was enough to bring on a migraine lasting hours.

“That’s nice” she murmured, when I played her my latest “find.” However, when I asked her if she would like for me to replay it — say a dozen or so more times to assure clarification — she demurely declined. “I’d love to sit here with you, Robert, but the last song you played reminded me that the feral cats behind the woodshed need a good shampoo. Why don’t you come with me to help?”

I’ve always been obsessed with the written word in all its inventive forms. From my earliest years, I sought solace in the lessons learned from poets, novelists, songwriters, and storytelling to make sense of the world. I spent most of my free time pursuing the musings of singer-songwriters, authors, and ‘globalists’ far more talented and insightful than I for guidance.

And so, as one might well imagine, it came as a surprise to me to awaken to the profundity of change in my music listening habits. Now I will readily confess that I am one of those music collectors who dearly love a wide range of musical styles, something my collection tries to capture. Yet lately I’ve been listening almost exclusively to my collection of world music; voices whose words I do not know but whose intense devotion to expressing their message is crystal clear.

I am also attracted to the single note song, “Gas!”, that Alan cries out as he pushes his cart bearing the fuel used to cook our meals and wash our clothes.

My apartment looks over a pitched orchestra of tiled roofs tumbling towards the spires of San Sebastian Church and the Museum of Modern Art. The audience is a grove of date palms with windchime fronds swaying in the wind. High above the rafters is the trio of clouds, mountains, and sky. Their afternoon performance will surely be rewarded with thunderous applause.

In the past I often turned to heartbreaking laments from a country far far away for company as I brewed coffee and poached eggs for breakfast.

But, all that is behind me now. I exchanged the requiem of a distant country for pan pipes, an accordion, and an acoustic guitar.

I still draw inspiration from the music of John Prine, Mississippi John Hurt, and countless others, but the lyrical beauty of a Andean sunrise and the murmur of bees in the ever-flowering landscape now take precedence.

Thank you, Sherry. I, at last, understand your patience and the importance of music beyond the plaintive cry of the forlorn.

I too prefer the symphony of our awakening world in all its glorious colors, sounds, and rhythms.