There's been a schism; we've lost our rhythm. (it's what we used to rely on the world to supply) What's slowed our pace has nearly stopped our race. But hey, stay-at-home is not stuck alone. Turn up the volume, be inspired dial the inner music even higher. Let it lead you, even feed you. Feel the beat? Let me be concrete. Brass and woodwinds, oh the strings; soaring, skyward on heavenly wings wait, be still, in the listening land see for yourself what's taking your hand. beat-beat-beat, be bold, be B O L D flap-flap-flap, behold, be H O L D... Spirit on high, lift us up, let us fly! Gliding, soaring, windswept wings Far above all ordinary things Upward, onward, take us there Lift us into the glorious air Into, into what is best Rhythm of rhythm, and holy rest. lift-o-lift, to soar, to SOAR up-and-up, toward a distant shore Beat of beats, be bold, be BOLD flap of wings, take hold, please hold. Oh, friend rhythm, you've returned Power and might, you have restored Life blood, flow, engorge, imbue; Body and soul, it's you! A New
Tuning pins, I think they call them. Those tiny knobs you twist to wind the strings and pull them taut. I was always fascinated by folks who did this, ear to the strings. They would pluck and turn, pluck and turn, listening for just the right pitch.
Are there really people like this? Who have perfect pitch hearing? Who can apply just the right tension to a string to make it vibrate with just the right frequency to make just the right sound when played?
Or is fine tuning a life’s work? Turning that pin, stretching, pulling, releasing, plucking. Preparing ourselves to be played by the hand of the Maestro. A symphony so marvelous we cannot imagine it.
But for now, we listen and twist. Listen and pull. Listen and pluck. Listen and play.
I must not neglect the playing. In it I find that perfect pitch is not so loose that I might slip or so taut that I might break but somewhere mid-way. Balanced. Toned. Fearless.