A Flower in the Garden of Delight

My Master hath a garden

Full-filled with diverse flowers,

Where thou may'st gather posies gay

All times and hours.

Where nought is heard but paradise bird,

Harp, dulcimer and lute,

With cymbal and timbrel,

And the gentle sounding flute.

O Jesus, Lord, my heal and weal,

My bliss complete,

Make thou my heart thy garden plot,

True, fair and neat,

That I may hear this music clear,

Harp, dulcimer and lute,

With cymbal and timbrel,

And the gentle sounding flute.

~ Anonymous

While I have been trying to process the passing of my friend, Raymond Martinez, the words of this anonymous Elizabethan poem sang themselves through my head, and suddenly the enormity this sorrow became clear to me, even dear to me –

But, of course, I must explain. (You knew that was coming.)

I don’t quite remember what year it was that I first met Raymond, but it was at a concert of French Baroque music in West Marin; other singer friends had invited me to come hear the program. I remember that when Raymond sang his solos, it was spine-tinglingly beautiful. And the inevitable duet, trio and choruses. I was introduced to Raymond after the concert, and we chatted for a while and then I was swept along to the reception. Before long, Raymond said, “You know, you should come sing with us.” And that was that.

That was that. For years and years and years, I would show up and it was “Oh, goodie!! I get to sing with Raymond, again!” And it was always a delightful time, whether it was sublime or ridiculous. We shared so many musical experiences that were sublime [Purcell: I was Queen Dido and Raymond was Aeneas, and it was exquisite!] or ridiculous [if you weren't there to see Raymond, dressed in a toga-esque costume with breastplates, head topped with a ten-gallon hat, make his grand entrance for "Oedipus Tex" roaring in on a forklift at Toby's Feed Barn in Point Reyes Station, you missed a singularly triumphant moment of ridiculousness in the annals of chamber opera], or even a somewhat disconcerting mixture of both, I can’t begin to catalogue them. But Raymond remembered all of them, and as the catalogue of your history with him expanded through time, so did a small, highly personal language develop between you and he. Heaven help you if you sat or stood near him during rehearsals, because he was a merciless sotto voce jester to whatever comedies evolved in the rehearsal process. He had the most deliciously wicked sense of humor, and he was always pushing the envelope of what he could successfully pitch into the room. Many were the times when I could feel my face burning red, as I struggled to keep myself from exploding with inappropriate laughter. Raymond would toss a cue word, a code phrase or a little sound from the personal language over his shoulder toward you; each of these was a golden thread woven, by means of the shared history, into the ever-unrolling carpet of fun and music.

One might think, reading this, that Raymond was frivolous, but no. Raymond took everything seriously, though he might not always be willing for people to see his serious side. There were glimpses of it, and it was revealed through intimate conversations.

Seasons came and went. Flowers of all kinds came in and out of season. But singing was always in season. We sang church services, memorial services, sunrise services for Easter, and midnight services at Christmas. Summer festivals; winter concerts; Sunday afternoon salons; the odd pick-up gig, here and there; and weddings. Raymond sang at my wedding, along with three other beloved colleagues. Someone else has written about how welcoming Raymond was to everyone he made music with in ensembles; music was never about competition, always about collaboration. Singing and musicking, the moveable musical feast, always and ever in season. And where there was music, there was Raymond, your colleague, confidant, collaborator, even co-conspirator in and of beauty—and fun! And when he wasn’t singing, he was taking in the opera, the symphony, friends giving recitals or concerts, edifying trips to museums of every kind [one day, as I was heading into the Legion of Honor, I heard my name called—there was Raymond! He'd already seen the exhibit and was waiting for a friend to come meet him for lunch. "Come this way— I know a terrific spot for getting pictures with the bridge in the background" So, I followed him. Indeed, it was a breathtaking spot, and he pulled out a film camera and snapped me with the bridge. Then his friend arrived, and after introductions, they went on their way, and I went on in to see the exhibit].

He loved nature; hiking; places of both cultivated and uncultivated beauty. God only knows how many miles he walked during his lifetime. He loved architecture. Life was all about being immersed in the ever transforming and informing experience of beauty. The back garden at Crescent Avenue was his hortus conclusus, a personal cloister of shade and green. He tended that garden, for as long as he was able, like it was a shrine, and shared it with friends as often as he could. As much as he loved this private sanctuary, he loved to happen upon beauty everywhere, and I truly mean everywhere.

Raymond may not have been all that handy with a computer, but his favorite piece of technology was the digital camera a singer friend gave to him. The right size to shove in a pocket, he was always prepared to experience and record his random encounters with beauty. Many of the subjects of the resulting photos were transformed into his superlative artwork, known to most of us through his business, Watercolors of the World. The last time I saw him, he told me about the condition of his health, asked me to pray for him, and then sought to soften this horrible blow by pulling out his camera and showing me the snap of an unbelievably gorgeous spray of flowers on a tree and a photograph of his latest painting, a giant succulent or cactus he saw in Golden Gate Park. “Do you know what species this is?” He asked me. I didn’t know. He knew far more formal names of plants than I did; he had to tell me that white flowers I’d photographed were freesias, not crocuses. But knowing the proper name doesn’t make the aroma of blooms sweet; they manage that on their own, whether we name them or not.

So, this brings me back to the Elizabethan poem. Those words were positively singing themselves through my head this morning, and I realized that Raymond, colleague and confidant, collaborator and co-conspirator, had also been the master cultivator, and of a garden much larger than the one at Crescent Avenue. Raymond spent his life cultivating a very great garden of friends. You and I, dear friends, each of us is a unique flower in Raymond’s garden; family, singers, poets and instrumentalists, all of us are in that great garden!

I think we can honor our friend Raymond’s memory best by being continually in season, blooming to bursting, and spreading, far and wide, our joyful noise of sweet and ever sweeter music.

© 2016 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Meditations in Fast Times: 39. I am torn open

Note to Readers: “Meditations in Fast Times” is a devotional writing experiment for the Season of Lent. Each day during the season, I am writing a poem as a meditation on, taking as my inspiration and intertextual basis, T.S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets”, as well as incorporating the daily office, current events, and other readings—some the same as those Eliot used while composing his seminal work and others. This is the penultimate poem of the cycle.

                39.

I am torn open,
The land is shaking;

mend me from my fears,
for all is quaking.

I look around me,
among the rubble of the place,
this is a community, this is home;
the people here have risen together here,
not all of us brilliant, rich or even nice,
but determined here to be,
united in this time and this space,
unwilling to accept defeat, to roam
aimless, beaten, to descend wholly into vice;
disasters help us to see.

The land is torn open,
the whole world is shaking;

save us from our fears,
for all is quaking.

I think of a King,
of three or more touched by Art,
plying their peculiar genius to some service,
uniting despite the challenges of time and division,
of places remembered, re-visioned, restored;
I hear a bell ring,
calling each of us to take some part,
in making or renewing bonds, soothing the nervous,
returning things to rights with care and precision,
finding and cherishing places we thought we’d explored.

We are all torn open,
all the buildings are shaking;

guide us from our fears,
while all is quaking.

We bury the dead,
but we cannot stop while others lie dying,
we must keep calm and carry on the healing,
finding new protocols, building better systems,
because we cannot go back;
it has all been said,
if we say we have not heard it, we are lying,
the life in our care is not for wanton stealing,
yet despite our miserable failures, still glistens,
with vitality even we cannot crack.

Our gates are torn open,
but all has stopped shaking;

Let us dry our tears,
and serve our remaking.

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen 

Collaborations

for my twins and all twins everywhere

About connections and intersections,
we have learned very little,

but they are everything;
without them, there would be no life.

Is there something somewhere else?
No, it is all right here, right now,
waiting for you to choose,
waiting for you to act.

The magic place is here and now,
the alchemy is in the meetings,
—sacred ground is everywhere,
tread with courage, care and smiles.

Those who say “self-made” are lost;
no one goes alone in this place
—it is how we meet and greet and treat
the faces we encounter each day.

See what is before you, recognize
yourself in every time and place,
and know that all others share
experience no different from yours.

All things will change and pass,
you and all beings will change,
we shall all be changed
—but not our comings and goings.

On our meetings we are tested,
day in week in years past lustrum,
in our meetings we are judged,
not in what we have or know.

Be into being and being with,
the quality of life lies in being with
and well within with and in each,
with all the best regards possible.

When you can see yourself
in another, in and by giving,
you will know the magic place
is your heart meeting others.

We must learn to be well met
in our connections and intersections;
meeting and being met is everything
to know and experience of life.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Copyright Laws: 2 Cents

The function and value and enforcement of copyright law has been constantly in the news--for years, now.

Right off the bat, I will say that I believe in an individual's right to the intellectual property s/he has generated. 

You will notice that I attach my copyright to many articles. This is just a reminder to all, as this is additionally noted at the bottom of the blog. I am grateful that there is copyright protection for my work. I believe copyright protection important to free speech and truth, as well as to the freedom of art.

That said, I believe that the way in which the courts enforce copyright law is inadequate, draconian and inequitable.

We have forgotten the whole point of copyright.

Think of this phrase from the prophet Isaiah (55:8, NIV 1984):

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the LORD.

What if the line read this way:

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the Creator.

Or, further:

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the humble author.

I believe that each person is a fragment of a whole of Being called Life. We each perceive the world, existentially, in a different way from everyone else, and therefore have a unique expression to offer (and to share) as we so desire.  Hence, in this case, my blog. 

For my blog is not your blog! Et vive la difference!

I also believe that it is possible, like a layering of the pages in a book, that we are touched by and influenced, in our observations and perceptions, by everything that has come before us, to which we have been exposed. The growth of the human mind and spirit comes about because of all that has been written in the ages upon ages that have come before. All creativity is both self-referential and reflective of the richness of everything around us. Hopefully, we know when we are paying homage to work of the past, and so note it, legally and reverentially, when we publish.

Personally, I will always purchase an album or a book or a piece of art that I want to add to my personal collection. Many of these are artifacts are created by artists I know personally. I want to honor those artists, my friends, by purchasing their work. 

Yet, I am not interested in duplicating what they have done, even if I possibly could. Neither would I welcome seeing someone else's name on a facsimile, or close to one (plagiarists being, by nature, not terribly creative), of anything I have done.

Strange as it may seem, I am interested in expressing my thoughts, which are not your thoughts, nor could ever be. 

In saying that, I also acknowledge that I am unlikely to earn money of any substance from my own copyrighted work. That is really not what creativity is all about. There are lots of lucky folk out there who have turned themselves into popular commodities for public consumption; indeed, into veritable cottage industries. That seems unlikely to happen to most of the rest of us. But, again, I suggest: while this can be a welcome consequence, it is not the point of the exercising creativity. 

I add that I enjoy the possibility of collaboration, as well as the life of my creations moving beyond me (with my knowledge and permission, of course). And so, I thank the several composers who have moved my words off the manuscript page and into an art form, music, that lives beyond print. It is both a joy and a blessing to see and hear the work migrate into another idiom, as filtered through another mind. 

To recap: I exercise my right to what I create. I acknowledge and submit to the turning of the pages of life. I like to share. I enjoy collaboration, to see my work take on new life beyond me.

Can the courts do justice to that? Will the courts protect my rights to my small body of work and the rights of others to their small bodies of work? Or will they only protect the rights of huge corporations, littering case law with judgments against little people, who mostly have no money, for ripping mp3s? Will they protect only the cottage industry, commodified novelist or songwriter who made it big, on ideas of a work from a previous generation, because the novelist or songwriter is now a millionaire, but leave the less successful writers and songsmiths to fend for themselves?

If it is all about money, copyright justice remains to be seen.


Meanwhile, keep on creating, people! Vive la difference!

© 2010 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen