Mobtown Blues

too barbarous for heaven

 

On days when I'm not swamped with work or off at meetings, I like to walk over to the Walters on my lunch break.  For one thing, it's free.  For another, it's nearby.  And no matter how many times I visit, I always find something new that catches my eye.

The 10th century Assyrian relief above reminded me of a segment from 'The Hearts,' by Robert Pinsky:

. . . as once in the Temple

In the time before the Temple was destroyed
A young priest saw the seraphim of the Lord;
Each had six wings, with two they covered their faces,

With two they covered their legs and feet, with two
They darted and hovered like dragonflies or perched
Like griffins in the shadows near the cieling --

These are the visions, too barbarous for heaven
And too preposterous for belief on earth,
God sends to taunt his prophet with the truth

No one can see, that leads to who knows where.
A seraph took a live coal from the altar
And seared the prophet's lips, and so he spoke.

God is in the details

I'm reading The Pillow Book (Makura no Soshi) of Sei Shonagon, a 10th century Japanese courtier and the contemporary of Murasaki Shikibu, who wrote The Tale of Genji. 

Little is known about Sei Shonagon other than what she reveals about herself in The Pillow Book.  Even her name is shrouded in mystery, as "Shonagon" is a title that designates her as a government functionary, and "Sei" is a shorthand reference to her family name, Kiyohara.  The picture that emerges from the translated pages of her only work is of an intelligent, sarcastic, incisive, haughty, compassionate, vain, vibrant person who was enchanted by the minutiae of life.

The Pillow Book itself is a collection of lists, reflections, observations, gossip, and poetry, the sort of things that a Japanese noblewoman might have jotted down on loose pages before bedtime.  Though spare, her musings offer tantalizing, hypnotically fascinating glimpses of Japan and court life during the Heian period.

Here is her entry on "winds."

A stormy wind.  At dawn, when one is lying in bed with the lattices and panelled doors wide open, the wind suddenly blows into the room and stings one's face - most delightful.

A cold, wintry wind.

In the Third Month the moist, gentle wind that blows in the evenings moves me greatly.

Also moving is the cool, rainy wind in the Eighth and Ninth Months. Streaks of rain are blown violently from the side, and I enjoy watching people cover their stiff robes of unlined silk with the padded coats that they put away after the summer rains.

Towards the end of the Ninth Month and the beginning of the Tenth the sky is clouded over, there is a strong wind, and the yellow leaves fall gently to the ground, especially from the cherry trees and the elms. All this produces a most pleasant sense of melancholy. In the Tenth Month I love gardens that are full of trees.

Here is Sei on "elegant things."

A white coat worn over a violet waistcoat. Duck Eggs. Shaved Ice mixed with liana syrup and put in a new silver bowl. A rosary of rock crystal. Snow on wistaria or plum blossoms. A pretty child eating strawberries.

And on meeting a lover:

To meet one's lover summer is indee the right season. True, the nights are very short, and dawn creeps up before one has had a wink of sleep. Since all the lattices have been left open, one can lie and look out at the garden in the cool morning air. There are still a few endearments to exchange before the man takes his leave, and the lovers are murmuring to each other when suddenly there is a loud noise. For a moment they are certain that they have been discovered; but it is only the caw of a crow flying past in the garden. In the winter, when it is very cold and one lies buried under the bedclothes listening to one's lover's endearments, it is delightful to hear the booming of a temple gong, which seems to come from the bottom of a deep well. The first cry of the birds, whose beaks are still tucked under their wings, is also strange and muffled. Then one bird after another takes up the call. How pleasant it is to lie there listening as the sounds become clearer and clearer!

Increasingly I find that creation is such an incredibly vast affair that the only way to wrap one's mind around the enormity of it all is to pay attention to the details.  Each moment, each occurrence, each phenomenon contains so much that it seems to me a futile exercise to try and understand existence on a macro scale.  Perhaps quantum mathematicians and astrophysicists can play comfortably with notions of time, space, and infinity, but such concepts tend to elude and frustrate me.   Observing the small and mundane, on the other hand, brings me into more intimate and immediate contact with mystery.  That's what appeals to me so strongly about The Pillow Book.

Sei Shonagon's style is also useful for me as a lackadaisical blogger.  I've never mastered the art of the short, pithy entry.  My tendency is to write essays (such as this post is becoming).  Reading The Pillow Book, I am finding the inspiration to pull back, to say more with less, and hopefully to post more regularly. 

Shouting Down the Devil

There’s a certain point during a good all-day Sacred Harp sing, usually midway after the noon meal, when the class really takes off, when the energy in the room becomes invigoratingly volatile.  That’s when experienced leaders start calling anthems and minor-key fuguing tunes, when the pitch of the session creeps upward a step or two, when sweat starts flowing down faces, and when spontaneous bursts of applause occasionally punctuate particularly well-led songs.  The overall feeling is one of a roller coaster just about to come off the track, and Sacred Harp singers treasure it.

This sort of singing experience was on my mind a few days ago, over the weekend of the 155^th Chattahoochee Sacred Harp Convention in Carrollton, Georgia.  Following the sing at Wilson’s Chapel on Saturday, a longtime singer told a group of us about an elderly male treble, a member of a Pentecostal church, who would get so exercised during the course of an especially lively Sacred Harp sing that he would start “getting happy” right there on the bench.  When I asked my friend whether this behavior was frowned upon by the non-charismatics in the room, he replied that it rarely elicited a comment, since most singers understood the source of the spirit that moved the old treble.

Now, if I was at a singing and someone started “fallin’ out” during the middle of ‘Eternal Day,’ I can’t say I would be as nonchalant as the singers my friend described.  Heck, there are some folks that I sing with on a regular basis who would probably faint dead away at such an unrestrained display of religious fervor.  Even so, I too can see what would move a person to such emotional heights during a singing.

This is intense music.  Its unorthodox melodies, dispersed harmonies, and frequently stark lyrics can sound harsh and jarring to the unfamiliar ear. If the poetry that accompanies so many of the songs seems bleak and uncompromising (“Your sparkling eyes, your blooming cheeks / must wither like the blasted rose, / the coffin earth and winding sheet / will soon your active limbs enclose”), consider that the world can be a pretty bleak and uncompromising place, and sometimes pretty tunes with pretty words just aren’t up to the task of helping one deal with it.  When we sing “my spirit triumphant shall fly,” or “I’ll soar away above the sky,” the music wheels and dips and ascends like a bird on the wing.  When we sing “oh, for a shout of sacred joy,” the music literally shouts for joy.  Sacred Harp music is about the important things: victory and defeat, permanence and transience, perdition and redemption.  The acknowledgement of the suffering that pervades this world, and the hope of a better world to come.  Life comes at you hard and fast, and this is music that rises to meet it.

For me, Sacred Harp singing is a necessary complement to the experience of unprogrammed Quaker worship.  I’ve always cherished the deep pools of silence that are to be found in contemplative religious practice.  At the same time, there are moments in life that demand a “shout unto God with the voice of triumph” (Ps. 47) or a “cry for help” (Ps. 5).  When I speak with God, it is not only in the stillness of my heart, but also in the fullness of my voice.  It is not only an inward, private conversation, but one that calls out to be shared in the company of a community whose voices are raised in song.

When a class of Sacred Harp singers really gets going, as the Chattahoochee Convention did a couple of weeks ago, it is like being in the midst of a storm.  Leading a song within the hollow square is like standing in the eye of a hurricane.  We give voice to happiness and our grief, we shout down the devil and bring despair to its knees.  And yet, despite its forcefulness and intensity, the singing is neither wild nor uncontrolled.  The roller coaster is kept on its track by a restraint born out of respect for the tradition and for each other.  As we were reminded during the memorial lesson at this year’s Chattahoochee Convention, those of us who let this music into our lives build those lives upon a rock.  And when we die, there will be a community of people – many of whom we never met – who will sing for us.  And I, for one, can’t think of any better way to spend my time, or to end it.