The Sacred Harp

Shape note singing has been around in this country since its colonization. It was a way of teaching young children how to read music and to sing. Each note corresponded with a note on the sol-fegge scale (fa-so-la, etc.) and had a different shape: rectangular, triangular, circular, square. So any child, if she could see the shape, could sing the corresponding tone. It is a very clever method of singing. It was particularly suited to congregational or group singing. Everyone is invited to sing in these groups, not just those with voices that are considered particularly worth listening to. Shape note singing groups usually have bases that bellow and altos whose voices are so strident that they can strip wallpaper. People wail away at a great volume, tremendous enthusiasm, and sing with their whole souls. In another post I said that there needs to be more singing by people in this country--not the polished, perfect music, but the singing that arises from a soul on fire. Shape note singing is such a practice. Old and young sing side by side without distinction. (go here and here to see an example).


Typically, the seats are arranged in a square and the leader--who can be anyone: man, woman, or child, with or without any kind of singing voice--stands in the center. They make an up and down motion with their hand to keep time. The tenor gives the starting note and off they go. The first time, the song is sung through on the fa-so-la syllables. Then the fun begins with the words. Some of the songs are dirge-like and others sound surprisingly similar to Scottish bagpipe tunes. The level of community engagement is unlike almost anything else I've ever seen.


Singings, as they are called, are usually an all day event, with dinner on the ground (a potluck lunch) in the middle of the day. The best singing occurs right before and right after lunch. The singing begins with a heartfelt prayer for God to be present, and ends with an equally fervent prayer of thanks at the end. It is a time of fellowship and anyone of any age, faith, or ability is welcome.

There are a few hymnals that are written in shape note, but the most famous by far is called "The Sacred Harp," the harp being the human voice. Most of the songs were composed around the time of the Civil War and the Great Awakening period in U.S. History. Thus, many songs are about Christ's return, the Christian life, and an earnest desire to live apart from a sinful world. Songs in this book are indexed by their tune name, not the first line of the song: Warrenton, Hyferdol, Alabama, etc. Here are the lyrics of one of my favorite hymns in the book:

When I can read my title clear

To mansions in the skies,

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

And wipe my weeping eyes,

And wipe my weeping eyes

I bid farewell to every fear,

And wipe my weeping eyes.

Should earth against my soul engage,

And hellish darts be hurled,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

And face a frowning world,

And face a frowning world,

Then I can smile at Satan’s rage,

And face a frowning world.

Let cares, like a wild deluge come,

And storms of sorrow fall!

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

My God, my heav’n, my All,

My God, my heav’n, my All,

May I but safely reach my home,

My God, my heav’n, my All.

There shall I bathe my weary soul

In seas of heav’nly rest,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

Across my peaceful breast,

Across my peaceful breast,

And not a wave of trouble roll

Across my peaceful breast.

The trailer for a very interesting movie documentary on shape note singing is found here. You will hear very strident, open chords, wierd harmonies. But for some of us, it is a tie back to the early days of this country, and an opportunity to keep this form of community music alive. I think that if more communities came together and sang like this, the country would be very different and so would the health of people and society in general.

Found here


BATTER my heart, three person'd God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.

I, like an usurpt towne, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely'I love you,'and would be loved faine,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie:

Divorce mee, 'untie, or breake that knot againe;
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you'enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

John Donne

Say it ain't so!

I was very pleased once, to be invited to sing with two friends on Pier 39 in San Francisco. It is in one of my favorite cities and I'd never sung in Elizabethan costume before. The music was interesting, too. Three-part madrigals about sad sack lovers and the pain of love, all written in renaissance style. When the day came, our male friend, Chris, was suited up in brown tights, a little tunic type piece of clothing with a tight belt, and an Elizabethan collar. If I remember correctly, he was quite a spectacle next to Shelly and I, wearing our nondescript flowing, brownish outfits. He looked like a noble and I looked like a scullery maid. But in any event, we found a nice little spot on the pier, put down a hat to collect money in, and began singing for all we were worth.


To our credit, we were young, had good strong voices, and sounded great together. A number of men looked appreciatively at Chris' long shapely legs in tights. We found that quite funny. At one point, Shelly and I switched from three-part motets over to a little song for two voices. It was a little renaissance ditty, and we loved the harmony of it, our voices meandering over and under one another in intricate counter melodies. I guess I'd never paid attention to the lyrics, for suddenly we found ourselves singing,

There we meet together and we kiss each other;
And like two wantons dilly dally...

Followed by a number of dilly dallies, over and under. The meaning of this was unclear, but we were having such a great time singing loudly over the sound of the waves and the people in and around the shops that we really didn't pay attention to the words. It was one of very few period songs that we had found which was written for two a capella women's voices. As we dropped our jaws and opened our mouths wider in order to project our voices, we suddenly heard ourselves singing,

There we meet together And we kiss each other

And like two wontons dilly dally...

It was too much and we erupted into gales of laughter. The little knot of listeners dispersed in disgust. We couldn't collect ourselves. It took quite awhile to pull ourselves together and shed our wonton personas. To this day, we laughingly sing out the offending line and have a good chuckle.

Shelly was present another time once when another lyric caught us off guard. We were singing in the Bullfinch church in Lancaster, Massachusetts.

Found here

We were singing in a group called Jubilate, a small choral group at our college. We were singing the beautiful Drop, Drop Slow Tears by Phineas Fletcher. The words are beautiful, moving, simple:

Drop, drop, slow tears, and bathe those beauteous feet,
which brought from heaven the news and Prince of Peace.
Cease not, wet eyes, his mercies to entreat;
to cry for vengeance sin doth never cease.
In your deep floods drown all my faults and fears;
nor let his eye see sin, but through my tears.

Few songs I know are more lofty and moving that this. But as we held forth in the wooden pews in that acoustically wonderful balcony, we heard ourselves singing,

See snot wet eyes, his mercies to entreat...

Oh, this will never do. We worked it out so that careful enunciation allowed us to side step this verbal disaster. But not a time do I hear it but that I smile.

You've heard things like this before--the words that run amok when sung carelessly or too quickly, such as "Gladly the cross I'd bear" (Gladly the cross-eyed bear). It sounds pretty funny to me, and I'm sure, to listeners all over. Perhaps it accounts for the distinct "smiling" vocal quality of the King's Singers on their album when they sing,

Weep o mine eyes and cease not

Keep your ears open. You too, will hear all sorts of things like this when you least expect it!

Fatal Flaws vs. Confounding Conundrums

Recently I've been thinking a lot about how God's beloved ones can be spiritually sound but socially or emotionally unsound. By this I mean, how people who are awkward, offensive, outspoken, rough around the edges, and who can still be so attuned to God that they cannot be faulted, spiritually. Some folks are so off-putting, but you can see that their faith is unwavering, their spiritual discernment clear, and their desire to please God is foremost in their minds.
And yet they may make for the worst companions you can imagine.

I suppose this has been figural for me since my path has taken a turn toward a few people who are difficult to be around. Pious people who are dear to the heart of God. One person in particular is someone I would describe as emotionally rabid, unstable, vitriolic, and socially inept. Yet he has a strong daily prayer life, going over a detailed prayer list every morning with God. He stands for high standards of moral behavior and academic competence. Yet he seems to try to cut me off at the knees whenever I appear to excel in anything that is different than his interests. It is always puzzling to me to be the recipient of his emotionally charged hit-and-run attacks. Especially when they occur in front of others who are shocked by his remarks (not to mention how blindsided I feel). But he would give the shirt off his back for another person in need. A person whom he believes is in need, I should clarify.

Then there is a woman who very humbly and with great feeling discusses her sense of awe about God who has lead her through very trying times. I am inspired and uplifted by her story. Yet her behavior is so offensive to me and others who comment about her. I simply don't like her, even though I know she is secure in God.

How is this possible?

I think about this sometimes when I'm standing in front of the mirror in the mornings, getting ready to go to work. How can I be so intent on following God through a life of service but still be so insecure about students not liking me? How can I lie awake in bed at 5:00 a.m. and plead with God to help me see and be more aware of how much He loves me, but be so vindictive and angry with my own family members? How is it possible for me to gather my feelings of generosity closer to me and refuse to extend grace to people who have deeply wounded me? Even though so many of these things have been taken to God in prayer and I resolve to be more open and accepting of others whom I adjudge to be undeserving. At the same time I am confident of God's grace being extended to me while I continually share my concerns with Him and ask for my heart to be changed.

Perhaps this is just the human condition showing through. Paul described this conundrum beautifully in Romans 7:21 - 25

So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself in my mind am a slave to God's law, but in the sinful nature a slave to the law of sin.

Indeed. As I struggle along the road to heaven I will not be perfect in all things. Probably, almost nothing. But God working in my life allows me to serve Him in my mind, to yearn after Him and His righteousness. Even though my behaviors are off-putting and I am not fully developed or refined emotionally, socially, physically or spiritually. The goal I have for myself is to extend this same degree and kind of grace to those around me who are not perfect outwardly, yet who love God from the inside out.

God help us all.

Consolation Prize

Today I finished up work very early--at 10:00. So it befell me to bring Dad home from his cancer treatment and get him settled into the house. We were leaving town and I casually remarked that I was hungry. "Well, lez go it" he remarked. "Where you wan to go?"
We thought about it for a few minutes before I drove us over to a Peruvian restaurant that opened just a couple months ago. Dad was enthusiastic.
Here are pictures of the things we had: Papa Relenna (above). It is a shell of fresh mashed potatoes and is filled with shredded beef, raisins, onions and olives. I picked out the raisins and there wasn't much in the way of beef inside, but what I ate was excellent. It was amazingly good, as was the shredded onion salad. I don't know what the seasoning was on the onions, but it was sweet and very fragrant.


This is called Arroz chaufa con pollo. It is a Chinese inspired dish of fried rice with various and sundry things in it. Chaufa is the way the chicken is prepared: in little chunks. Dad kept laughing and saying, "I dun't know this chaufa thing." But I noticed that it disappeared from his plate rather quickly.

Found at 222.Tiwy.com

We were given this little basket with little wizzened somethings in it. I first thought it was fried beetles. Then as I looked at it, I told dad, "It should be called Diente la vecchia (old lady's teeth)." He winced as he laughed at my linguistic efforts.

The drink is a fruit drink laced with cinnamon. It was absolutely fantastic, whatever it was. The waitress told Dad (in Spanish) that it is made in a pressure cooker and that was about all that I could pick up. It was wonderful.

Dad and I were regretful that Gil couldn't join us, but we have an entire entre to share with him when he gets home today. "He not gonna like you bringing me home early any more becau he dun't get what we do." I agreed.

"Oh, but that wah goood!" Dad effervesced.

I couldn'g agree more.

Half Brain

Numbers have always given me fits. I don't know if it is because there was always a lot of anxiety in our family around math or if it is just that the left half of my brain doesn't work well. Mother used to drill my brother for hours on his multiplication tables. I can still see her sitting on the floor opposite Ray, flipping the 4 x 6 cards over to reveal the answers on the back of them. Ray would be sweating bullets, worried that he would get scolded for not knowing the answer to one of them. And he usually couldn't be quite fast enough for Mother.

Funny, he later was a 4.0 student in his college math classes. He could have actually been a math teacher or scientist. He's really smart. But he has trouble with the right side of his brain: reading, writing, spelling, emotions--all the things I do well at. If you could take the two of us, put us in a bag and shake us up, the end product would be someone who was quite good in most everything. But apart, we struggle in our own ways.

Some years ago when I was working as a nurse, I had to chart everything that my patients did, including their vital signs every few minutes. Every missed heartbeat, every retch (this was in the recovery room!) As the patients wheeled into my work area, I would snap up a chart and write the date and their first set of vital signs before anything else. Imagine my surprise when reviewing the chart I would see dates such as 1947, 1829, 1988. This was in 2000. I tearfully reported this to my therapist with my concern that due to our family history, I probably have early onset Alzheimers. Why else would I struggle remembering the date?

Actually, I never did have trouble with the hour or minutes. Just the year. I began to wonder if it was because I can look at my watch and see the time, look at a calendar to see what day it is, but the year is just plain recall.

Fast forward a few years. My church in St. Paul decided to have a huge potluck for me for my birthday. Being someone who always wanted to chip in, I asked if I could bring deviled eggs. Everyone loves deviled eggs and there typically are never enough on any potluck table. Sure. There were to be about 40 people there.

Great, I thought, before I slowed myself down to start calculating on paper how many eggs I'd need. There are 40 people, and since everyone loves my deviled eggs and will probably want two, I'll boil 80 eggs. Perfect. Eggs were only about $ .79 so I could pull this off, even as a graduate student.

I boiled and boiled eggs. At one point the nagging voice in the back of my head wondered why there were so many jillion eggs--somehow they seemed to be a bit many for only 40 people. Every flat surface in my kitchen was covered with hard boiled eggs. When I popped out the yolks to add mustard and other things (the deviled part), they filled up my big Pyrex bowl. Now I didn't have space to put all those 160 egg halves. This was definitely too many. But I dutifully took them by the bucketfull to my party. It was amazing--everyone loved them. They ate and ate them before it dawned on me that each egg is halved and that I really anticipated that everyone would eat two entire eggs, not two halves. Good grief.

The party planners had a good laugh about this, asking me again what my PhD was in (not math!) They took home oodles of eggs. We were just about giving them out to strangers on the street. I think I took a dozen or so (whole) eggs home.

It is humbling when part of your brain doesn't work. My students often give me these looks like they consider me to the The Great Oracle. But they don't realize yet that I'm teaching them the things that I'm good at, not the things that I can't comprehend--like number type things. It's just that it's easier to hide a left brain deficit than a right brain deficit. People are penalized for not being able to write, read, or spell, but it's not so dire if you can't add or count. So I limp on with the mass of humanity who struggle with numbers, reading, spatial skills, etc. It is hard to feel like a half wit, but in actuality, many people are. We just have nicer names for it.

Thankfulness

This morning we (the family in the U.S.) heard from my cousin's husband, who told of being moved by security to another location. They apparently are safe. However, it must be a very harrowing experience, one that they will not soon forget.

As for me, the thought of losing my cousin and her family to a violent death really made me stop and consider some important issues about the meaning of our lives and how God judges us. My cousins are some of the most ready to die people that I know, in the sense that they love God, know that they are safe with Him, and would be content whatever their fate if they believed that God allowed it. Ann is in the process of editing a book of her prayers during a particularly difficult time in her life. All I could think about, as I was praying for her, was that she knows how to pray, why to pray, and that without a doubt she was constantly in prayer over the last 24 hours. While I had great concern for her physical life, I had no concern for her spiritual life. She trusts God. Bob trusts God. After coming back to the States, both will have stories of their answered prayers and spiritual benefit they received while on this trip.

I am thankful beyond words that they are safe. But even more, that I have one more example of people whose faith rests on God. Whether they lived or died, their trust in Him is immense. I am grateful for this knowledge and their example.

A Horrified Waiting

My cousin, Ann, her husband Bob, and their two children, Michael and Rachel, flew to Mumbai today to attend Bob's daughter's wedding. We just learned via CNN of the bloody terrorist attack there, and the great danger in which Americans and foreigners of every group find themselves. We have no way to contact them. Please keep this family in your prayers, as we do not know what is happening and it must be terrifying to be there. There are hostages, gunfire, grenade explosions, and all kinds of unrest in this city today. We pray that they are not among the casualties, and hold our breath, waiting to get word from someone about what is happening.

Voice First

Some years ago, after I became involved in public speaking, my parents ran into a man who grew up in our town. He is about 8 years older than I am and rather an owlish sort of person. In passing, he mentioned that he had heard me speak or something like that, and then commented, "Who would have thought that a wallflower like Barbara would grow up to be who she is now."

I was incensed when I heard this, particularly since this man acts like an old maid and is totally unaware of it.

A wallflower? I know I was very, very quiet as a younger person, but I never thought of myself as a wallflower. Because I had such an amazing, rich inner life, was never bored, always had plenty of things to think about. I did like to be alone, reading, thinking, climbing trees, walking in the woods--always alone. It's unclear to me that I did this because there was no one else to be with, or because I preferred to be alone. But a wallflower?

It has been no secret where I have gotten this trait. My father was a loner and was always puttering off in the garage by himself. Or upstairs with his ham radio or trains, or his computer. We grew up hearing Mother say that he had grown up being waited on hand and foot by his mother, almost like an only child (she always said that as though this was a decided handicap), and was very spoiled. So he wanted to be left alone to do his own thing. That's what it looked like at least. I have my own therapist musings about this. But in any event, I grew up to be much like him. I love being around people but when I've had enough, I want to be alone. Completely alone--not Sam, not Otis, no one. Just LEAVE ME ALONE!!!

When my father was courting Mother, he used to go over to her family home and endure what to him was almost enough to send him scuttling out the door: loud Italians, seemingly yelling about whether the sky was blue or gree, up or down. Even a little yap-yap dog that sat at Daddy's feet, daring him to make a fast move. If he did, Cookie would let out a series of sharp, threatening barks. When Daddy left Mother's home, he was glad to be getting out of there.

I never understood that as a kid--it was just a funny story about an introverted man and loud Italians. He always told me that he'd rather me marry a Jamaican than an Italian because he didn't think he could endure the loud talking of another Italian family again. Mother was completely put out by this.

But the older I get, the more I recognize that I have his introverted temperament. I can be around people indefinitely, but I do not like a lot of noise. Getting married to a salsa music loving man (at 6:00 a.m.) almost undid me, initially. Having three loud, brawling, screeching, Puerto Rican stepdaughters and a loudly speaking Puerto Rican husband almost put me over the edge more than once. "Honey, I'm right here, not in the next county. Please lower your voice!"

It's hard to know if I'm like this because I've been single and accustomed to a silent house, or if the louder the decibels, the more introverted I get. It's probably a combination of both.

Today, we had a Puerto Rican relative and his wife spend the day with us. We had a wonderful time--he cooked dinner for us and regaled us with one story after another. He is a DJ on a Mexican radio station--a delightful Mr. Entertainer. And he has a shockingly LOUD voice. I realized after about 10 minutes that I had to leave the room because I was holding my breath. It took some stern talking to myself to go back and work at staying present.

He was an absolute delight and his wife was lovely. We are so glad that we made connection with them and hope to see them frequently. And I am upstairs, sitting in the semi-darkness, in absolute silence. It will take awhile to catch my breath again, even though my heart is full and I am delighted.

Whew.


Whew...

Oh Swami, Swami...

On Sunday I made brownies for our company. They are the rich, gooey kind that you want to eat one after another. We ended up with quite a few left over. So they were put into a container with a lid and pushed into the refrigerator.
Last night Sam's father wondered why we didn't have anything sweet for the end of his meal. I told him that we do. He went to the refrigerator, threw open the door and stood there for several seconds, staring into it. "I don't see nothine," he opined. I noted that he neither stooped down to see what was on the lower shelves, nor did he open the lids on anything. And yet, not only did we have brownies, we also had leftover pumpkin cake and apple crisp. He just hadn't looked for it properly.

The night before, Sam stood in front of the refrigerator, trying to think of what he wanted for supper. Since I haven't felt well, it fell to him to prepare something. "We don't have any food," he sighed. Looking past him, I saw a huge bag of Swiss Chard, a container of spaghetti with fresh home made sauce, two containers of fresh green salad, a container with leftover chicken cacciatore, apple crisp, and a pot full of cooked succotash.
"What are you talking about?" I couldn't believe what he was saying.
He pursed his lips and moved one container to the side. He looked disgusted, tired, and overwhelmed. I knew what that look meant: either he would make himself a fried egg sandwich, or he would cook up some Trader Joe's Mandarin Chicken. And so I watched as he pulled out the frying pan and put the chicken in it.

I don't know what it is about men and refrigerators. Not all men are aversive to really looking and being aware of what is in there, or cooking meals from what is there. But the men I know and live with, are like this. So intelligent in other areas, but can't find one thing in the refrigerator. I was lamenting this to a friend whose husband holds a doctoral degree. She said her husband was always asking her, "Pam, where is the milk?" She got so sick of it that she began bowing toward the refrigerator saying in a wobbly, reverential voice, "Oh Swami, Swami, show us the milk!" John would glare at her and she would tell him that if the milk were a snake he'd be dead by now. This was greatly comforting to me, recently married and stunned at how Sam couldn't find anything. But it was alarming on the other hand because it meant that we'd waste a lot of food over the course of our lives because I'd cook it and he couldn't find it. We'd drown in spoiled food. Indeed, there have been times when I've thrown out all sorts of things that didn't get eaten, and I don't just mean the wilted greens in the crisper.

This strangeness about kitchens and finding food seems to come from the fact that some men can't identify what they are looking at. When I came downstairs this morning, Sam was wiping ant spray around the pantry door. "We have ants and I'm killing them" he announced with determination. I squashed one with my finger.
"They were after Dad's sugar in that container he has in there. So I put it in the refrigerator."
"Good move, honey" I said, approvingly.
He sighed. We are sick of fighting ants.
This afternoon when I came home, I opened up the refrigerator to make Dad lunch. There were a number of things in there that had been rearranged so it was hard to find what I was looking for. But there, right in the front of the juice and milk, stood a large container of garlic powder. What in the world? I wondered.
Oh, the ants. That's right. The garlic is kept in the wire rack inside the pantry door. Sam was killing ants on the pantry door. He must have thought this was Dad's brown sugar.
I paged Sam right away: "You are a silly, silly man!"
He called immediately, laughing at himself.
Oh Swami, Swami, where is the brown sugar now?