Choir Nerd

   Once I saw a brain teaser that said, "Am I a nerd because I like Star Wars, or do I like Star Wars because I'm a nerd?"  I think the answer is more complicated than that.  Liking any particular thing does not make you a nerd.  To be a nerd means you're passionate about something, and you express that passion in a particular *way.* 

   Here's an example.  I have a friend who is a positive nerd for one particular football team.  At any given time, he can name players and coaches, (past or present,) with something about their backgrounds and/or previous experience, their strengths, their weaknesses, where they are playing/coaching now and what happened to make them transfer.  He knows history-making moments for the team and which year each happened, including the situations surrounding them!  He knows all the game mechanics of football, all sorts of strategies, all the rules, all the penalties, and all the stats (previous or current year!)  The man is a walking encyclopedia of information on this team.  It never fails to astonish me.  

   Even though it's football, (which is not generally something we associate with "nerdiness,") he's a nerd *about* it.  All of the the ins and outs and obscure trivia about his team interest him.  All of it is important to him.  People tend to think of nerds as people interested in certain things, (comics, fantasy, sci-fi, video games, etc.) but someone can be a nerd about, say, nutrition, or fashion, or language, or cars, or the flying mechanics of birds of prey.  Anything that makes your eyes light up when someone asks you about it.  Anything that you're crazy about that affects every part of your personality.  Being a nerd is, to put it simply, allowing yourself to like something that you find compelling, and the willingness to continually learn more about it and participate in it if/when you can.  

   There are quite a few things I am a nerd about, but none, I think, are as close to my heart as my love for choir.  I am a choir nerd.  

   I've been singing ever since I could talk.  I don't remember a time before I loved to sing.  It was just always in my nature to express my thoughts and emotions with singing.  Thankfully, my parents encouraged it, though I know there were days when they wanted to tear their hair out because I would never shut up.  

   I always have been an "auditory learner." I memorize things quickly if I can hear them chanted or sung.  Whether it was songs, movies, or sections of Scripture, if I could hear them fairly frequently I could remember them with surprising accuracy.  My continuous quoting got on my parents' nerves all the time, I fear.  But they stuck it out.   

   Both my parents are singers, so they were teaching me proper singing techniques from my tender years.  

   "When you sing, you stand up straight, you don't want to be leaning up against anything."  

   "Take a deep breath, and sing all the way to here before you take the next breath."  

   "Can you sing this note?  What about this one?  No, no, don't squeak it out.  Deep breath, full voice, project!"  

   My parents taught us hymns and encouraged us to learn songs and to memorize Scripture.  They played good quality music when they drove us places.  I memorized all the lyrics in "The Sound of Music," before I was ten years old.  Along with...ahem...various and sundry other forms of media.   

   I was in my church's children's choirs for as far back as I can remember.  In children's choir, the directors taught us to breathe using our lungs' full capacity.  They taught us to stand still, with our arms down by our sides when we sang.  We learned to watch the conductor's every movement for cues.  They gave prizes to children who learned hymns.  We learned how to sing loudly and softly, and how to transition from one to the other.  They taught us that when you sing, your vowels are pronounced differently from the way you normally say them in conversation.  For example, to sing, "What child is this who laid to rest, on Mary's lap is sleeping," you would pronounce it in your song more like: 

   "Whot chald is this who laid to rest on Mah-ry's la-ahp is sli-ee-ping?" 

  Tall vowels, a bit British-sounding.  A's become Ah's.  E's are loose and open, not spread side-to-side the way we speak them.  With I's, you really only sing the first part of the sound, and you don't bite the "ee" sound down on them the way we do when we speak them; (at least not until the very last second to enunciate the following consonant.)  It would sound more like "Ah," than "Eye."  O's are very round and open and soft, not closed off at the lips.  U's are delicate, more like the way a queen might say, "You, boy!" and not the way we say the word "ewe," (or "Yew.")  My illustration, by the way, not any of my conductors'!

   The reason all the vowels have to be so tall is because when you sing, you can only sustain notes on vowel sounds, not consonants!  (If you just tried to sing one or two consonants, know that I'm smiling at you.)  Thus, you sing the vowels for as long as possible, and you squish the consonants in between vowels.  However, it's vital for the consonants to be crisp and sharp, otherwise how will the audience be able to understand the words?  

   Of course, all these lessons were only reinforcing what I'd already learned at home.  My parents sang that way, and so did the artists in the music they had us listen to.  So naturally, I imitated those techniques when I sang. 

   Also, my parents had each of their children take three years of piano lessons.  We all learned to read music, along with all the signs and terms, and the basics of music theory.  When I look back on my childhood, it seems like a strangely unified education in music.  After I quit piano, I studied the violin until I graduated high school.  I could write a whole different post about all my experiences in orchestras; my private lessons, church orchestra, and the youth orchestra program in the state.  All three were very different, yet they each brought their own unique pleasure and quality of enjoyment, each completing what the others lacked.  

   I loved my time as an instrumentalist, but voice is really where my heart is.  My voice is inextricably bound up in my personality; a vital part of all my strengths.

   I was born with the desire to express and to describe.  When I was little, I could never stop talking because I wanted to share the things I saw in my mind's eye.  That desire still burns relentlessly within me.  I love to tell stories, I yearn to show people things they've never thought of before.  What's more, I thirst to hear other people's stories, and all the things they have to say.  The more I listen, the more I can learn, and think on.  Everything I hear I gather into my soul, and I explore them, play with them, stretch them, turn them, relate to them, puzzle over them.  Every concept connects to everything else, and the more I learn, the more I understand about life.  The more I think on what others say, the more I can understand people.  And the more I understand people, the better equipped I am to offer pieces of the puzzle to them that they might be missing.  To see the look of dawning comprehension on someone's face is an exquisite pleasure.  When something finally clicks for them, when something finally makes sense...and to know that I was able to give them that?  There's nothing quite like it.  

   I use my voice for diplomacy and for peace-making.  When I know what someone wants, I know how to help them.  When I get to reconcile two parties and help them to get on the same page, my stomach flutters with this thrill that tells me I'm doing what I'm meant to do.

   I use my voice to sing because I cannot hold it in.  I've often felt that when the Lord was "knitting me together in my mother's womb," He imbued Music into my soul, into the very core of my being.  It will not be silenced.  

   It has always seemed to me that there is music playing in me.  Not the kind of music you can hear, or even always *think*.  It's just...there.  Perhaps it's because, to me, emotions are synonymous with music.  They do say music is the language of the soul.  It's very hard to explain this kind of thing.  Maybe I can say it like this: my feelings naturally translate into music.  And when I feel things strongly, my voice begins to hum or sing, and the emotions come out as music.     

   In my darkest hours, the themes are minor-keyed and treacherous.  In my bitterness, they are a cacophony of discord.  In my resentments, they twist and writhe, howl and rage.  In my fear, they are ascending and descending minor arpeggios.  When I (day)dream, the themes are expansive and ethereal.  In my laughter, they swoop and trill like songbirds.  In my sadness, they are deep-toned and groaning.  When I'm wistful, they are ballads with broken chords.  When I grieve, they wail in weeping phrases.  When I'm happy, they swing or march.  In my delight, they waltz.  And in my Joy, they can be almost anything.  But never silence.  Never, never silence.  I wonder if this is what King David meant when he wrote of his "songs" to the Lord; the cries of his heart, his "songs in the night."  

   "I sing, for I cannot be silent, His love is theme of my song," the hymn-writer says.

   "All my life was wrecked by sin and strife
   Discord filled my heart with pain
   Jesus swept across the broken strings
   Stirred the slumb'ring chords again.

   Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, sweetest name I know
   Fills my every longing
   Keeps me singing as I go."  

   
   When I sang in children's choirs, the music seemed to engulf me and sweep me into another world.  I used to get so frustrated at the songs chosen for us.  I'd hear the introduction, and it would be so delicate and yearning that I would be practically squirming with anticipation to learn it, to take it into my mind to treasure forever.  But when it came to the actual melodies, they were simple and narrow.  Quite tiresome if sung by themselves.  The accompaniment was what made it lovely.  There would be no harmonies, or precious few of them.  The simplicity of it ground on my nerves.  

   My parents had us sit in the next room during their choir rehearsals.  I eagerly drank in every anthem they learned.  I had them memorized by the time they sang them in church.  I ached to partake of those subtleties.  Such an abundance of words and themes was a veritable feast to my soul.

   I was eleven when I aged out of the children's choirs.  I wasn't in a choir again until I was fourteen.  Just three years, I suppose, but how horribly long those three years were!  Also, a LOT happened to me emotionally within those three years!  It makes it seem like an age.  

   My parents brought me to join the choir at our new church when I was fourteen.  My voice had faded from lack of use.  I have always been a soprano, but I couldn't even hit the E at the top space of the treble clef!  Yeah.  I remember feeling dismayed, but also, inexplicably, strangely gratified.  I could tell I was going to be challenged.  This was going to be the real deal, actual anthems for adult voices!  And I was going to learn them, I had no doubt about that.

   When I sang with the choir, I felt like I was on holy ground.  My beauty-loving soul thirstily drank it all in.  The beauty of the melodies enraptured me.  We were given CDs with recordings of the anthems to help us learn them.  I listened to them on my boom box, and I put them on my MP3 player and devoured them every day and everywhere I could.  When we got up to sing them Sunday mornings, I had each memorized completely.  I held my folder and turned the pages mechanically, but I didn't need to look down at them.  

   There's just something about singing truth in such beautiful songs that does something to me.  Again, I don't know how to explain it.  My mind, my emotions, even my body responds in elation when I hear or sing them.  It just makes me so happy.  Even singing lament anthems or somber ones.  There's this joy that wells up inside me, and I feel like it must be brimming over, shining out of me.  When I'm singing, I know just who I am.  I'm not afraid.  I feel at peace, at rest, deep down inside.

   I don't get stage fright when I'm going to sing.  I mean, if I'm singing a solo or something, sure, I'll be a little nervous.  My knees will shake a little, my palms may get sweaty, my voice might wobble a bit at the start.  But once the music really gets going, the nerves drop away.  I *know* what I'm doing.  I'm prepared.  And I absolutely love performing.  I know that sounds prideful, perhaps, but it is the truth.  I get to communicate something important to so many people.  I get to use my voice to make pleasing music for them!  Voice is the one thing I know I do well enough that I don't have to doubt myself.  When I perform, I want people to forget their sympathetic nervousness for me, and just enjoy the beauty of the song, and the truth it conveys.  

   Music is just one of the many ways God calls people and gets their attention.  If God uses my voice in song to draw souls closer to Himself, I have not lived in vain.  When I sing, I know that I'm doing what I was created to do.  I'm just where I need to be.  I like feeling that way.  

   Now, I've noticed choirs with adult musicians usually are made up of chill folks.  I'm sure professional singers tend to be rather snooty, or divas, that kind of thing.  But in our choir, nobody has delusions about themselves.  We're all there because we love to sing, and we all love the Lord that we praise when we sing.  I think I've been very lucky with conductors all my life.  All of them, especially the music pastors, have had excellent senses of humor, and the choir always responds in kind.  

   I can still remember how astonished I was as an over-serious teenager hearing grown adults cutting up and cracking jokes in rehearsals.  I hadn't known adults could be so fun to be around.  One of the reasons I had been so adverse to growing up was because I had come to the conclusion that adults had to be serious and stuffy all the time.  And one reason I had become so over-serious was because I had grown resigned to that idea.  Each rehearsal lit a little flame deep within me, fanned the tiniest flicker of hope that maybe life wouldn't always be so...monotonous.  So grey, so dull.  That maybe if grown adults could kick back and laugh easily sometimes and still be respected, then maybe I could too.  These adults were young at heart and--and happy.  So...what if I could be that way, too?

  The sadness and resignation that had become the fundamental truths of my personality at last began to give way.  It was like a ray of light that found me in a prison cell; coaxing me out into the sun.  Getting to feel happy again was like rediscovering colors, or recovering your sense of taste after a long sickness.  It was marvelous to laugh again, to really feel like laughing, and to occasionally be made helpless by it.  

   Music, laughter, and most of all Truth came flooding into me, wrenching open the windows that I had long kept nailed shut, sweeping away the cobwebs in my brain, purging my fears that lay in cluttered piles, washing and scrubbing and rinsing the grime off everything, refurnishing, reorganizing, redecorating everything with cheery new thoughts, and lighting lamps and hanging them up everywhere.  Shadows were banished.  Like boggarts, my mind's troubles and insecurities fled and dissipated before laughter. 

   Singing still cleanses my soul to this day.  When my heart goes sour, some good music helps to put it back in tune.  If I'm lost in a labyrinth of motives and worries, singing songs full of truth shows me the way out. 

   When I get to sing for people, it's like I get to show them the way out, too.  It's a pleasure greater than any fame or stardom the world can offer.  That's why I'm a choir nerd.  I hate it when choir ends for the summer, and I'm always itching for it to start again in August.  

   As the Autumn weather approaches (little by little!) I associate its beauty with the new songs I will learn when choir begins again.  I gladly hammer out the difficult passages on the piano until they feel natural to me.  I get to taste Christmas as we rehearse the music for our December concert.  Fall and Christmas are deeply linked in my mind.  I can't really experience one without the other.  

   A few weeks ago I was looking for a Christmas anthem for my family to perform this Christmas Eve.  I eagerly opened the first file drawer, and thrilled to my fingertips as I saw all the old sheet music.  To me it felt like browsing through tomes of ancient magical lore.  (Think Gandalf elbow-deep in scrolls and parchments in the library of Gondor here!)  Old anthems were like dear friends, hailing me with scores of happy memories.  I went on browsing gleefully through every drawer, hunting a particular song.  I do believe I would have made a delightful study for a manga-artist in that moment: standing on my tiptoes to peer into file drawers nearly as tall as me, my nose close to the label tabs, my hands busy and rummaging, my hair falling around my delighted face.  

   Long rehearsals are my glory.  It doesn't matter how long a rehearsal is scheduled, you cannot daunt me with it.  I saw a meme of a nerdy-looking kid with glasses that said, "Has a three-hour rehearsal---thinks it will be fun," and I just laughed.  Story of my life.  I do find it fun.  Fun, refreshing, invigorating, even outright energizing.  

   In the New Heavens and the New Earth, I'll be able to sing as much as I could desire.  We're children of a singing God, after all.  He sings, so we should too.  

   But until then, this is my prayer:

   "I love you, Lord
   And I lift my voice to worship You.
   Oh my soul, rejoice!
   Take joy, my King in what you hear!
   May it be a sweet, sweet sound in your ear!" 


~Cadenza                 

Walking A Tightrope

   On my birthday, I went to an outdoor theater showing "The Greatest Showman."  I'd never seen it before.  

   It was quite the experience.  Circuses have never exactly been my cup of tea, but I found myself enjoying it.  I was swept along into the story, and I found it refreshing.  

   It was refreshing, for instance, to see a family portrayed that way.  The wife and children who adore their husband and father and who support him and believe in him.  It was nice to see a "dreamer" father portrayed better than the "shiftless," dad who does the dreaming while his wife ends up doing most of the work.  I don't know anything about the man Barnum actually was; I imagine the truth is nastier than the movie.  

   However, in this case it doesn't matter as much to me.  What mattered is the makers of the movie took the trouble to show a healthy, beautiful family, led by a father, supported and followed by his wife and children.  

   You see at least three types of love portrayed across the story line.  The glamorous Miss Jenny Lind, drawn by Barnum's charm and dreams, might be one. 

   "You set off a dream in me..." she sings, "Will you share this with me?"

   " 'Cause darling, without you
   All the shine of a thousand spotlights,
   All the stars we steal from the night sky
   Will never be enough
   Never be enough
   Towers of gold are still too little,
   These hands could hold the world, but it'll
   Never be enough
   Never be enough 
   For me."  


   I was glad that in the movie, Barnum stands firm against temptation.  I was bracing myself for him to fall, but he did not.  Though tempted, he rejects her and immediately takes himself away from her.  I liked seeing that portrayed on screen.  

   (And you better believe I love that song, by the way!)  

   
   I had heard (and memorized) the song, "Rewrite the Stars," before I saw the movie.  I absolutely love it...but I've heard its message many, many times before.  Yes, we write our own destiny, we are given the freedom to choose our own actions and the consequences that come with them.  There's something archetypal about the Masculine attempting to pursue and win the Feminine.  To bring her out of her past, to lead her into a better future, to pledge and to convince her of the depth of his love.  When she takes to the air he follows her, joining her in her element in a dance of strength, elegance, and passion. 

   I love the triumph in their voices as they sing:

   "Nothing can keep us apart!
   'Cause you are the one I was meant to find!
   It's up to you
   And it's up to me
   No one can say what we get to be!
   Why don't we rewrite the stars
   Changing the world to be ours?" 


   But the scene that moved me the most was a different song: "Tightrope."  

   This is Charity's song.  Her husband is far away, and we see her tucking her little girls in for the night.  She's drawing the curtains and preparing for another night alone.  

   In stories we often see the discontented wife.  We see her embittered, snapping, or at best, falling apart, at her wit's end.  In this song, we see something that is not often portrayed, let alone glamorized as it deserves to be.  This is the song of the patient, faithful wife.  She does not resent her husband's dreams, she revels in them.  She misses him, but is not angry at being at home while her husband is away.  Instead, she looks well to her household.  

   She sings:

   "Some people long for a life that is simple and planned
   Tied with a ribbon
   Some people won't sail the sea 'cause they're safer on land
   To follow what's written
   But I'd follow you to the great unknown
   Off to a world we call our own.

   Mountains and valleys and all that will come in between
   Desert and ocean
   You pull me in and together we're lost in a dream
   Always in motion
   So I risk it all just to be with you
   And I risk it all for this life we choose.  

   Hand in my hand 
   And you promised to never let go
   We're walking a tightrope
   High in the sky
   We can see the whole world down below
   We're walking a tightrope
   Never sure, will you catch me if I should fall?
   Well, it's all an adventure
   That comes with a breathtaking view
   Walking a tightrope
   With you."  


   She knows how fragile all this is.  Her husband is risking money he doesn't have for this success.  So many things could happen that would cause it all to tumble down.  And she knows he's out there working closely with the alluring Jenny Lind.  She knows the risk, but she's trusting him all the same.  She loves him.  

   I love the image in the song.  Walking a tightrope with a partner.  There's no net beneath them.  If one of them strays, they both plunge into ruin.  Marriage is a promise to never let go, whatever happens.  

   It would be giddy joy if it weren't for the sobering danger and intense concentration not to fall.  And it would be paralyzing fear if it weren't for the thrill of being up so high alone with your best friend and love of your life.

   It's worth all the danger to be there with him.  It's worth all the risk to have this, her husband, her little ones, this life together.  

   If you ask me what true love looks like, I would say it would look like her, spinning and dancing in the moonlight, waiting for him, trusting him to come home to her.  Still dreaming and nurturing and hopeful.  Embracing the adventure of it all, risking her heart for love.  

   Is there anything more beautifully Feminine in this world?  

   It's these little moments that go unsung.  Bravery that is not seen, or lauded, or even always rewarded.  This is the romance of life.  Love mingled with sorrow, hope mixed with fear.  To understand the terms and the risk, and to choose to still dance within it.  Every once in a while, it's nice to see a moment like that put on the screen.  

   I am, and always have been a dreamer, an incurable romantic.  People today foolishly think that means I'm blind to the world around me.  No, I see it.  I see it all.  My dreams do not blind me to the truth, they are reflections of the Truth; the Promises by which I live.  I do my little duties each day, and I tuck myself into a lonely bed every night.  And I wake up and I do it again.  I don't know what will happen.  I don't know if I'll get to be loved, or get to have children of my own to nurture.  

   I'm waiting, and I don't know if I'll be rewarded the way I hope to be.  But I can't give up.  I won't fall away, because this is what is right.  My allegiance is to a greater King, and I gave my heart to Him long ago.  I don't get to know what will happen.  I have to carry this cross of uncertainty, pain, and fear.  This loneliness is mine to bear, and I will stand up under it.  

   I'm not really alone, I know that.  His Spirit lives in me, and He sees me.  That's the reassurance that the incurable romantics of the world don't have.  I too, am alone in the night, wondering what will happen.  And even though I know He's with me, I still have to feel lonely.  One can live their life doing everything possible to shout down that persistent loneliness.  I embrace it.  I choose to trust that Jesus Christ has ransomed me and adopted me as His daughter.  He means to come back for me one of these days.  I'll see His face and I'll marvel that I ever doubted Him.  

   It'll all come right in the end.  My story isn't over.  

   
   "Hand in my hand, and You promised to never let go.
   I'm walking a tightrope...
   Well, it's all an adventure that comes with a breathtaking view--
   Walking a tightrope
   With You."      

  
~Cadenza

Silver Dollar City

   In Branson, Missouri there's a theme park called Silver Dollar City.  Its logo is of a setting sun behind an axe driven into a log.  Silver Dollar City stands apart from every other theme park in the world.  The whole city is built with the theme of the Ozarks, particularly of the pioneer days.  Everything about this city exudes charm and cheerful reminiscence of days long gone.  

   Silver Dollar City is one of my favorite places in all the world.  Nowhere else have I experienced Nature and Society so in harmony.  It is a treat to be there, whatever time of year you choose to come.  

   Today I'm going to take you there.

   The experience begins long before you ever get close to Branson.  It begins the moment you open your eyes in the dark hours of the early morning.  The park opens in the mid to late morning, so it's best to get an early start.  Maybe pack a lunch for the road.  Oh, and if you're going with me, you'll want to bring along a pillow and a blanket.  Just trust me on this.  I'll explain later. 

   The drive starts off as an interstate cruise.  But at some point, you turn onto a different highway, and begin a pretty steady climb through Rural USA; you pass through small towns where time doesn't seem to flow at quite the usual rate.  Old churches, old schools, flea markets and quaint houses nestled seamlessly into the hills and dells of Smalltown, USA.  

   In between and past the towns, the road grows slim and meandering.  You are entering the Ozark country, and there's a feeling in the air of leaving your old life behind.  The road threads its way through rolling hills and pastures with horses and cows sedately eating their breakfast in the cool, still morning.  By this time the sun is rising, and you can see mist hovering in the lower valleys and above the rivers and creeks.  In the dewy freshness of the morning, Time seems to be losing his merciless, tyrannical grip upon your soul.  Sometimes I even get the feeling that I am traveling through time.  Into the past?  The future?  Who can say?  Somewhere better, that's all I know.  Somewhere beautiful and strange; somewhere I belong.  That drive, seen in the gold of a sunrise and the silver of the mist, is a small eternity that lives in the soul long after the destination has been reached.  

   After a while, the scenery becomes wilder.  Rock formations begin to appear on either side of the road.  The hills become rock cliffs, perpendicular and craggy.  Tiny waterfalls come bounding out of hidden channels, spilling themselves in their abandon to reach the moss and climbing greenery on the rock.  

   Finally, Branson itself draws near.  Branson, that quirky land-locked cluster of shows, oddities and entertainments.  And Silver Dollar City, the best of them all.  

   Once you park, you must wait for a trolley (or begin a very long walk uphill) to take you to the entrance.  It's the first ride of the day, and a pleasant one.  The breeze blowing your hair, the chatter of cheerful families, and the instructions blared at you through old speakers by a Santa-Claus type old man in the very back.  

   You are ushered to the entrance with an "All Ashore," command, and there you are, walking toward an unassuming door in a stone wall.  They aren't kidding when the signs say, "You have a great past ahead of you!"  

   I said that Nature and Society live in harmony in Silver Dollar City, and that's because unlike most amusement parks, there are trees galore.  Trees and flower beds with low stone walls.  The paths are of asphalt, thus clear and easy to traverse, but on every border there are thick woods and usually shrubbery and climbing plants allowed to grow alongside them.  In short, they have not conquered or subdued Nature, but rather have created a lovely lagoon where Nature and Society may coexist in close proximity.  There are many places to sit down everywhere you look.  In the summertime the trees provide shade.  In the wintertime, they break the icy wind.  Sometimes you can smell the woods, especially in the Autumn.  

   There are buildings everywhere, but they are built in old styles and with purposefully faded colors.  All employees are dressed in period costumes of the 1800s, and all of them are friendly and helpful.  

  As you wander the streets of Silver Dollar City, you will see shops of every kind in every direction.  You will smell home-cooking from the restaurants!  Skillet meals, potato twists, and fried chicken as well as the traditional pizza, nachos, funnel cakes, loaded fries, and grilled sandwiches.  One of my favorites is a bowl of Dippin' Dots ice cream.  There are stands everywhere serving drinks.  Frozen lemonade in the summer, and hot chocolate and wassail during the Christmas season.  

   You can see shows, too.  They have performers of all sorts at Silver Dollar City, ranging from full-scale theater productions, to musicians performing on the streets.  You can also stop to watch a blacksmith, a leather worker, a potter, an artist, or even a glass-blower in an indoor smithy!  All of this punctuated by the wailing whistle of the Silver Dollar City train as it chugs by.  

   My parents took us to Silver Dollar City many times while we were growing up.  The whole place is so steeped in memories that I find it difficult to describe the place in a coherent, linear way.  

   We used to go in the summer, and we would get drenched on the American Plunge or the Lost River of the Ozarks ride (which sadly they have demolished this year; hopefully they'll build another water ride on its site.)  We'd walk around for the next few hours dripping until the sun and wind would dry us off.  It was part of the experience, and hey, at least you were cool for quite a while!  

   Some rides, like "Fire in the Hole," and "Thunderation," have been around for decades.  They're part of the old Silver Dollar City, and I find that even though I enjoy other rides more, I like their "tried and true," charm.  

   All of the roller coasters at Silver Dollar City have a theme to them.  The Great American Plunge is the theme of those crazies (they do exist, sadly!) who bundle themselves into barrels and let themselves float downstream and over waterfalls.  The posters say things amounting to, "Are you daredevil enough to brave the Great American Plunge?" 

   "Fire in the Hole," is an indoor roller coaster with a fireman's theme; each room shows a scene from old towns in the Ozarks, where notorious gangs like the Baldknobbers used to set fire to buildings, steal goods and livestock from the citizens, and the brave firemen who would rescue people from the burning buildings and homes.   

   My family is, without doubt, the most annoying family to ride with for "Fire In the Hole."  It's a tradition that my dad started.  When I and my sisters were younger, we were terrified of the dark and the hooded figures of the Baldknobbers.  My dad had the brilliant idea of sitting next to us on the train and saying things like, "It's daaaaaaaark..!" in a spooky voice.  Or yelling out obvious facts like, "The bridge is on fire!!"  "Oh, nooo, it's the BAAALLDDKNOBBERSS!" or, "WATCH OUT, it's the MOOON!!"  

   We admittedly hated it for a long time, but somewhere along the way it turned into reacting to everything with screams or yelling advice to the stationary characters, clapping along to the cheerful bluegrass music playing for one stretch in the dark, and *pretending* to be scared.  Perhaps it was a coping mechanism we used when we tried to coax the younger girls to ride it with us until we weren't scared anymore.  And of course, for the last drop we all yell, "FIIRE IIIN THE HOOOOLE!" 

   The other riders can't see who we are.  I can practically smell their bewilderment and embarrassment.  We revel in it.  Hey-oh!  No regrets.  It's a beloved family tradition.  

   I never have figured out what exactly the theme is for the newer, but no less beloved ride, "Wildfire."  I can't tell if it's supposed to be a lab for controlling the weather or plans for a flying machine or some strange combination of the two.  Then there's the "Tom and Huck River Adventure," (wonder who that's named after!) where you sit in a boat and shoot water cannons at riders on other boats.  I've only ridden that one once, sadly.  Oh, and there's the Giant Barn Swing, one of my personal favorites.  I especially love to ride it in the dark at Christmastime.  When you're shot into the air with your toes dangling over your head, you can look *up* and see Silver Dollar City all lit up below you in the thousands of Christmas Lights.  That is not an experience to be missed.  

   There's the Powderkeg roller coaster, which I frankly do not care for all that much.  I can do it, you know.  I just don't like the crazy acceleration at the beginning.  

   There's the new "Time Traveler" ride, which is really neat.  It's a ride that spins, but it's a *controlled* spin, not like the crazy stuff you see at Six Flags parks.  The theme for that ride is, obviously, an inventor (and his daughter) who invite you to join them in a "time-traveling experiment."  It's actually a very fun ride, and because it spins, it's really a different experience each time you ride.  The weightlessness you feel in the soar and rush make it a truly unique experience.

   But my favorite is "Outlaw Run."  It's a huge wooden coaster, and the theme is of a stagecoach attempting to outrun the outlaws wanting to hold it up.  No spoilers for this one except for what the female voice tells you each time you buckle up.  "It's gonna be a wild ride!"  

   I do love the Wild West music they play as you wait in line, and the Aaron Copeland-esque fanfare they send you off with, along with the sound of a whip cracking, and horses neighing.  "That was a little too close for comfort," you hear the old man's voice say as the ride slows to a stop.  "But here at Silver Dollar City, the good guys always win."  

   Autumn is probably my favorite time to be in Silver Dollar City.  There's the Harvest festival, the pumpkins everywhere, the hot cider and cocoa.  Sometimes the water rides are still open in September.  Also, that's when most people are back in school, so it isn't as crowded, and you have shorter wait time for everything.  

   And then there's Christmas.  The shows are heartwarming and touch on the true reason for the season.  During most of the year, they play Bluegrass music throughout the park, but at Christmas, they play a lot of Mannheim Steamroller Christmas albums, classics like the Carpenters and Michael Buble, and sometimes even symphonic arrangements of the familiar carols.  It infuses the atmosphere with rich warmth and old magic.  There's a giant Christmas tree that gives a light show, beginning when the sun goes down, and playing different songs at fifteen minute intervals.  At Christmas, there are a lot of attractions that sound more exciting, but the light show is actually the most exciting.  

   Silver Dollar City is, as I said, steeped in memories of my family and friends.  I've been there in the euphoria of child-like glee and the glow of its innocence.  I've experienced it in loneliness, even when, (or perhaps especially) when in a crowd.  I've felt myself lost there--emotionally set adrift in a sea of existential angst.  I've experienced it in heartbreak, grief, and tears.  And there have been times when I've come back in triumph, free at last from burdens I had long carried.  Every time I visit, no matter where I am in my life, some of my childhood comes back to me.  When I am walking the streets of Silver Dollar City I am ageless and capable of anything.  

   Silver Dollar City exudes joy and wonder.  Freedom and order, Nature and Society, new beginnings and old memories side by side.  Families and Friends, Neighbors in the faces of the crowds.  Nostalgia and whispers of promises yet to be fulfilled.  Youth and Age, Laughter and Solemnity together in a wondrous dance.  Piercing Joy, profound sadness, and the deep certainty underneath it that one day all will be well.  

   I am always reluctant to leave, and I get the sense that the City feels sad to see me go.  The blow is softened by the, not one, but two lovely gift shops you must walk through.  I love the last-minute shopping on my way out.  The trolley ride back to your car is peaceful.  At least I have always found it so. 

   Once you're out of Branson, there's one more section to the trip.  One that most people don't think too much about.  The road back.  That drive is incredible in the light of the rising sun, but I like it under the moon just as well.  

   I love to drive.  While most people are zonked out and resting, I'm wide awake, navigating the winding roads in the velvety darkness of the country night.  Somehow the way back is always facing the moon.  She hovers in the sky just over the road ahead.  She's an old friend of mine.  We hold long conversations without saying a word.  I'm thankful that most people sleep on the way home, because it gives me time to process the day, to store away memories, and to sort of organize it in my mind.  I have time to think over what I liked, what I disliked, what I needed more of, what I can do better next time...and of course reliving the best moments.  My mind can wander in that dreamy state of lunacy that somehow always gives me clarity.  

   I love to make playlists for myself, and I have a few for road trips.  I can put them on and sing softly, if I like.  I'm integrating yet more memories into the songs.  Building them into my consciousness, mind, and personality.  Into my past, present, and future.  

   My mother loves to drive, too.  She liked driving back from Branson when our family would go for the day.  I suppose I get it from her.  I learned the hard way as a kid that my Mother needs cool air circulating in the car to stay awake when she drives late at night.  One or two miserable experiences where I couldn't keep warm and couldn't sleep at the tail end of a long tiring day taught me to always bring socks, a jacket, a pillow, a blanket, etc./all of the above for the road back!  So I crank up the air to stay alert.  I layer up and brace myself against the cold.  I think of it as a challenge to up my driving skills. 

   When I reach the bridge over the last river, I can see the radio towers far away on my right, their little red lights twinkling and dancing and waving across to me to welcome me.  That's when I know I'm almost home.  It makes me think of one of Tolkien's poems: 

   "Then world behind and home ahead,
   We'll wander back to home and bed.
   Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
   Away shall fade!  Away shall fade!  
   Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,
   And then to bed!  And then to bed!"  


   See you soon, Silver Dollar City.   


~Cadenza   

A Defense for Dance

   I have a theory that every little girl is born with an innate desire to dance.  

   I suppose I am constrained to modify that.  There are exceptions, I'm sure.  It's possible that there are some women who do not feel any desire to dance, nor can remember a time when they did.  

   Certainly plenty of women can, and do, claim that.  And what do I know?  I don't have any studies I can cite or scientific data to show.  I have done no research.  I could easily be wrong about this.  That's why I called it a theory.

   I have a sense that I am treading on very touchy ground here.  I've noticed a lot of women are very defensive about this issue.  Most of the women I observe would disagree with my conclusions.  Yet I find something fishy about the immediate defensiveness of these ladies.  If it were like any other hobby, say, knitting or (for another extreme) hunting, women tend to be pretty chill about it.  "Yeah, that's not really my thing," they might say with a laugh.  Perhaps toss in a joke or two.  It's no big deal, and no one pretends that it is or isn't, except in playfulness (or immaturity.)  

   But dance...there's something about it.  There's a certain polarization when it comes to dance.  Some folks make no secret of how much they love to dance.  But there are just as many if not more people who do.  There's this embarrassment in people's response to the subject.  Either they get uncomfortable and change the subject quickly, or (and this is particularly true of women) they adopt this sheepish wistfulness, as if that desire ought to be treated with guilt or ridicule.  

   "I only dance when I'm really drunk!" 

   "I don't really *dance* dance, I just kind of wiggle..."

   "Oh, you do NOT want to see me dance!"

   "Oh, no...I'm not a dancer...I never learned..." 


   There are all kinds of reasons people can feel that way.  For a lot of older women, they used to dance back in their shall we say, former lives, and have tried to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their past.  Also I think many women feel intimidated by the dancing they see broadcast before them constantly.  They can't move like those people in the music videos.  Or the television shows, etc.  Those people make it look so effortless, and they feel clumsy by comparison.  (But of course these ladies are not taking into account the years of practice that those seemingly perfect dancers have put in.)  

   Like I said before, I can't make a scientific argument about this.  I'm just going to state my observations.  The anecdotal evidence, I guess you could say.  

   I see that most (grown) women are embarrassed by the idea of dancing.  Many teenage girls are too shy to try it.  And yet there are many who are wistful; they'll sometimes let it slip that they wish they could before they recover themselves with a joke and a laugh.

   Even in the defensive types, there's a certain ferocity about their disdain for dancing that intrigues me.  If they really didn't care, they'd just shrug it off.  Their immediate defensiveness indicates that they are suppressing that desire within them.  Perhaps they are ashamed of it, or the idea carries a certain amount of baggage that they would rather not address.  It seems to me that a lot of women these days aren't being honest about it.  Which I suppose is easy to get away with.  There doesn't seem to be much between "club" dancing and the formal setting of a ballroom or wedding.  

   And yet, look at little girls.  Most of them from the instant they can toddle about instinctively bob and sway and twirl to music.  They do it naturally, spontaneously.  Haven't you ever seen a little girl twirling her skirt, especially if it sparkles?  There's this incandescent light in her face, her eyes just glow.  She is a picture of innocence, a little girl radiant in her beauty, in her femininity.  There's a time when a little girl dances without caring if people are watching or not.  And there is usually a time, however short, when she wants people to watch her, wants to be seen and delighted in.  Especially by her father.  She wants to be daddy's princess.  

   Somewhere between childhood and maturity, that desire to dance gets muddled, and often completely lost.  It's a sad loss.  I suspect that it's more important than most people realize, or care to admit.  It seems to be tied inextricably to that inevitable Wound that comes for every human who lives in this fallen world with its fallen people.  But that is another discussion that others have written about in detail. (i.e. "Captivating," by John and Staci Eldredge, and "Wild At Heart," by John Eldredge.)  

    I'll be the first to admit, I have not studied ballet, jazz, or tap.  So you could make the argument that I am not a "real," dancer.  But I have always been a dancer in that, when I was happiest, I danced to express my emotions.  Or else I was dying to, inside.  Or I could hardly contain myself until I was alone to do so.  I have always been aware of how innately I move to a strong rhythm in a song, whether by a discreet tap of my foot or a bob of my head.  I always fail those "Try Not To Dance," challenges.  It's torture until my body betrays me and involuntarily responds to a surging chorus or a drop of a beat.

   The first time someone ever asked me to dance was after a group lesson of ballroom dancing.  This man old enough to be my grandfather with slicked-back hair walked right up to me holding out his hands with a kind smile on his face.  I remember being nervous, but also curious and rather pleased.  I knew that I'd always longed to be asked to dance.  But I was scared too, no doubt about it.  I was so new to it.  

   He walked up to my table and asked me if I wanted to dance this song with him.  He held out his hand.  I had to place my hand in his to accept.  I don't hold hands with men, certainly not strangers.  And this man was a stranger to me.  But in this room, different rules applied.  Here it didn't mean what it meant out there.  It was a formal invitation.  I looked up at his face.  I couldn't tell how old he was, but there was an unaffected kindness in his smile that made me want to smile back.  I knew he was a good dancer.  So I placed my hand in his, accepted with a smile, and stood up.  

   He led me out onto the floor.  When I told him I didn't know how this step went, he immediately began to demonstrate.  After a few tries, he pulled me toward him with his right hand, offering me his left.  The next thing I knew, I was standing with his right hand firmly placed on my shoulderblade, my left arm draped over his right.  I was standing in his personal space.  I felt uncomfortable.  But he led, and I followed.  We were gliding in a simple step.  If I focused hard, I could remember which way to move my next foot.  When I wasn't sure, he directed me, I couldn't tell how.  

   By the middle of the song, I began to smile a little, to myself.  My feet were falling into the rhythm of the song's beat.  We were in sync.  This wasn't so bad.  He was so sure of himself, so completely in his element, that it didn't feel awkward or threatening anymore.  His arms were a firm framework.  His hands stayed steady and still.  We were standing quite close to each other, but it was respectful.  There were certain rules and boundaries, and they were both understood and practiced.  

   When the song ended, he thanked me and escorted me back to my seat.  


   Once I had a taste of ballroom dancing, I wanted more.  At first I had to coax myself to go, but once I was there, I was glad I had come.  There were so many different dances!  The Foxtrot, Rumba, Bolero, Salsa, Cha-Cha, Swing, the bold Tango, the Waltz, and my personal favorite, the Viennese Waltz.  That's the fast kind of waltz that you see in movies, where the dancers whirl, skimming the outer reaches of the ballroom's edge. When I got home, I scribbled down the name of every dance I could remember, and put it where I could see it.  When I glanced at the list, I tried to remember the basic step for each.  Some were easy to remember, others I continually confused with another.  But once I knew one of them, I practiced it in my room.  As the weeks passed, I was foxtrotting across the halls, waltzing in the kitchen, and cha-cha-ing back and forth in my room.  

   I started recognizing dance patterns in songs I heard.  The DJs at the ballroom played all sorts of music.  They spanned anywhere between Sinatra-era swing to hit songs played over the radio.  They also played world music, songs from other decades, instrumental pieces, and sometimes haunting scores from movies.  

   I had to work at it, but once I got the basic steps differentiated from each other, it got easier and easier to fall into the rhythm of a song I was hearing.  When I went back, I could see how much I had improved.  Some people began to teach me new steps to build on top of the basic.  The group lessons were helpful in that, too.   

   I began to see a strange change in myself.  As I continued to go, confidence was building in me.  As I began to learn and abide by the rules of the Ballroom and of the Dance, I found I was no longer afraid to be right up in people's personal space.  I began to even be able to make eye-contact and converse cordially as I danced.  I was losing my fear.  

   What's more, I began to be more physiologically aware.  I became more coordinated, more graceful, more light on my feet.  My feet didn't get tangled up as much.  My reflexes improved.  I learned to keep my knees bent for fluidity in my movements and to keep my center of gravity low.  I learned control.  It was like I was acquainting myself with my body in ways I'd never known before.  I was inhabiting my body in a new way.  And naturally, my muscles strengthened from the new exercise.  It was good all around for me. 

   Not all dancers are the same, of course.  Some just bounce as they walk in the proper rhythm.  Some are--not as young as they once were--and could not lead with strength or fluidity anymore.  Some were far more interested in holding a conversation than the actual dance.  

   The young boys were stiff and awkward, and obviously scared.  I was always kind, and tried to be reassuring.  But most of them stuck to their friend group and wouldn't ask me.  

   There were the men who liked to dance, but did not lead.  They just sort of swung you about and expected you to know what to do.  Or who twirled relentlessly or who mixed up different dances with no discernible pattern.  And there were those poor fools who pretended they knew what they were doing when they clearly didn't; who corrected you for not following them, even when you couldn't have known what they wanted you to do. 

   There was a couple who came frequently.  They were stunning when they danced together.  Long practice and well-practiced romance and friendship made them a delight to watch.  Once I had the luck to dance with this gentleman in a Foxtrot mixer.  I could tell from his stance just how professional he was.  The song was a cover of "Singin' in the Rain," and this man bore a lovely resemblance to Gene Kelley.  His smile had the same melting quality, and I was delighted.  Once, when I accidentally miscalculated and stepped on his toe, he apologized for not leading the step well enough.  He told me when a lady made a mistake it was the man's fault.  

    There was the man there who walked like a king, and led with the skill of an instructor.  His ability to lead was astonishing.  He could whirl me into steps I'd never done before and whirl me right back to normal again before I knew what had happened.  His smile was kind and joyous.  He told me it was the man's job to show off the lady, and he did.  When he danced with me, I felt as graceful as a bird.   

   And then there was the silent, solemn one who taught me many, many steps.  He was a patient teacher.  He was strong, but graceful; he reminded me of some great cat with padded paws.  When he invited me to a dance, he took me on a journey.  

   There's something about the Art of dancing that reflects deep, deep realities.  

   Marriage is like a dance.  Someone has to lead, and someone has to follow.  Leading takes sacrifice and responsibility.  Following takes as much strength as leading, only of a different kind.  And just as when a couple dances, everyone's eyes are fixed on the lady, so everyone is entranced with the Feminine's grace and poise as she submits, yes,---yet transcends that submission with joy and love.  It's give and take, it's lead and be led, the roles change continually.  It's a game, a riot, it's spontaneity wedded to teamwork.  It takes absolute trust.  It takes courage.  

   The Christian life is like a dance, too.  I don't know where He's leading me or how to follow Him.  He doesn't give me step-by-step instructions.  He leads, He nudges, He's always there.  He teaches, and I do my best to heed Him.  When I stumble, His arm is there to steady me.  When I am weak, He is my strength.  When I am angry and try to run away, His love never lets me go.  And He spins me through each moment with an undercurrent of joy.  There's a promise of better things coming.  It's an adventure.  And He's there, taking me into His joy and His love. 

   Dance reflects the reality of romance.  The game of pursuit, the subtlety, the fire.  The passion, the vulnerability, the trust. 

   Now that I know the archetypal realities that Dance reflects, I can't help but wonder why we try so hard to suppress our natural yearnings for it.  Is it because we're afraid to let ourselves feel those yearnings?  

   I can't help but think it would make a vast improvement in our lives if children and teenagers were taught ballroom dancing.  It would help young men and women to feel more comfortable in their own bodies.  It would build confidence.  Young men would learn how to touch a girl with respect; to be neither grasping or terrified.  It would build strength, grace, and trust.  A young man needs to learn grace to pair with his strength.  To wed romance with his masculine soul.  A woman needs to learn how to follow, even (dare I say it!) to obey. (Gasp!) She needs to learn not to fear, nor to resent him for his strength, but rather to learn the difference between competence and corruption.  To recognize each when she sees it in the world; to respect the one and reject the other.  To be so confident in her beauty and her strength that she gives life, nurtures, and brings forth beauty in everything her life touches.  

   I am personally convinced that within the vast majority of woman there's still that deep desire for dance.  It's denied and suppressed, but not quite dead.  Oh, if men only understood this about us!  If only men were taught how masculine it is to lead with grace and power!  If they only knew how irresistibly attractive that makes them to us!  If they only knew how we yearn to be led, to be made to feel graceful, to feel that we matter!  If they had any idea how it thrills our hearts to be chosen for a dance!  If men only could glimpse how deeply tied romance is to dance--to know one is truly to understand the other.  Maybe they wouldn't be so reluctant to learn.  I wish they knew how we long to be swept up in the music, to be--for a moment--taken, led into the music itself!  It's rather like being caught in the current of a river.  Inside a song, inside the beauty, reflecting it, sharing its loveliness...and not to be in that place alone.  To share that reality, that experience, with another.  

   Dance reflects archetypal realities.  We deprive ourselves grievously to suppress it.  


~Cadenza

Beyond the Waterfall

   Dr. Jordan Peterson once mentioned in one of his lectures that extroverts orient themselves to society.  "Introverts orient themselves to..." his voice trailed away and he fell silent for a moment of intense thought.  

  "I think it's nature," he told the students.  "I never have quite figured out what introverts orient themselves to, but I think it's nature."  

   That tells me Dr. Peterson must not be an introvert.  I am, and I suspect he's right.  It's certainly true for me. 

   I've written about the mysterious draw that the natural world has for me in my post titled, "When I Run."  I experience it like a spell from a fairy tale.  It calls me imperiously.  I'm drawn to it, I yearn for it.  Sometimes when I lie in bed at night I listen to the sound of the wind, and something makes me long to rush out into it. 

   I feel a difference in my soul, and even in my body when I've been away from nature for too long.  As I walk into the building for my job each morning, I look up at the sky for as long as I can.  I gaze intensely at trees, and I smile fondly at pools reflecting things upside-down.  

   I'm writing this post because I'm beginning to understand how weird, no--unheard of--this concept actually is these days.  I have never known anything different.  As bizarre as all this most likely will sound to you, reader, this is my everyday experience.  I am not exaggerating for a theatrical effect.

   You're telling me people don't notice the little wildflowers that come up before Easter every year?  The little white starflowers with the purple stripes?  What about the little clover blossoms that smell so clean?  They don't look at the tiny yellow buttercups with their liquid-looking centers as if they truly had butter melting inside them?  What about the dainty tall ones with the shy, half-closed blossoms with their tiny orange dots of pollen?  Those are my favorites to see around Easter.  

   Yes.  They're weeds.  I know that.  But they're beautiful.  What does it matter that they're weeds?  You're telling me people don't give them a glance?  

   Do you ever look at the sky and just take delight in how big it is?  All that vast, open space is filled with color, light, and wind sculpting away at the ever-changing clouds.  It's breathtaking in all its weathers; rain, snow, clear, or stormy.  

   When I drive in my car, I gaze avidly at the trees I pass, especially this time of year when they're in bloom.  I was almost overwhelmed today when I passed a tree resplendent in snowy blossoms, with a subtle, pinkish hue in each cluster.  I find it hard to believe that anyone could pass by it and not be moved to delight.  But they do, I know they do.  That's what they tell me.   

   Whenever I feel burdened, or when life becomes too confusing, I run to nature.  I run to the Woods.  To mountains if at all possible.  

   I'm not sure I can explain why.  Creation is not sentient; she gives no answers.  She doesn't always give comfort, either; not the all-encompassing kind that I need.  Sometimes she makes me feel even more restless than I felt before.  

   To be surrounded by Creation, even for a short time is to allow myself to be accosted by tumultuous inner seas of desire and restlessness.  Yet it's better than to slump languidly in my cushy temperature-regulated box with my eyes glued to a screen; numbing myself so I can't feel those yearnings.  No.  It's always better to allow yourself to yearn rather than to quench it, smother it, or numb yourself against them.  

   I feel withdrawals if I go too long without wind and trees and running water and grass.  I feel lonesome if I shut myself away too long from the Sky.  My feet ache to feel grass and dirt between my toes, with the passion that I hear from most women who are sighing for the feel of sand between their toes. 

   I need the sound of the wind in the trees.  I need rocks and cliffs and woods.  I need the light, the colors, even of raindrops and the claps of thunder.  I need every season, with all its pleasures and discomforts.

   I need the privacy of being surrounded by trees.  I need trails, threading and beckoning through them.  I need to be alone under the sky.  I need the wind in my hair, I need open spaces without fences or buildings.  

   Why?  I don't know why.  I just do.  My soul this moment is afire with longing.  

   The idea that most people don't feel this kind of thing bewilders me.  


   I said Creation does not give me the deepest comfort I'm searching for.  But she does give me her own kind of comfort.  Nature is benevolent and nurturing as well as cruel and unforgiving.  

   I think that call I feel from the wilderness is a call from the Author of Creation.  Who else could it be?  I can't tell you how many times I've been in the woods and had my senses overwhelmed by this anticipation that I was about to meet someone.  Not the creepy feeling we all get sometimes when you feel like you're being watched by something you can't see, something or someone that may be malevolent.  I don't mean that kind of feeling.  What I'm describing is an uncanny feeling for sure, but not a creepy one.  Nor do I mean that I sense the presence of a person just before I see them or hear them.  It isn't even some kind of strange instinct that I'm about to meet my soulmate or anything like that.  

   I know, I know.  If it isn't those, what could it be?  Well, I don't know.  Or, I think I do know, but it doesn't make a lot of sense, humanly speaking.  Every time I try to pin it down with words it sounds like emotional froth.  

   The best way I can describe it is this strong expectation of encountering someone good, someone who's waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves to me.  Someone, but not like a human; someone beyond merely human.  And it's frustrating because it's a good kind of anticipation, even excitement; I'm in the right place, but our positions in Time don't touch, or at least mine doesn't touch theirs.  A few times I've found myself turning around and around on the spot, scanning in every direction, asking in my heart, "Wait!  Where are you?  Who are you?  Come back!"  

   And before you start thinking I'm a complete lunatic (though it may be too late), I'll mention that I've never seen anything when that feeling came over me.  Never heard voices, nothing like that. 

   I see Nature with a kind of double-vision.  I see what's there, and I can just almost see beyond to what it could be.  As if Creation itself is in disguise, and underneath is potential waiting to be called into glorious fullness.

   I suppose this double-vision is what remains of the ability I once had as a child to Pretend.  As you can no doubt guess, I had a vivid imagination when I was little.  I saw pictures in my head so clearly that they were just short of real to me.  When I pretended with my siblings in the backyard, I barely even saw the yard around me.  I was so preoccupied living and interacting with the world I saw that when Mother called us in to supper, seeing the yard was something of a shock.  "Oh, yeah...I guess I have been here the whole time."  

   When I was a child, I thought that life was dull.  Grown-ups were mostly dreary, and  obsessed with things that were boring.  They didn't understand the world that I imagined, and they didn't want to.  I was made to understand that the "play world," couldn't last forever.  That one day I'd have to leave it, lock its doors behind me and lose the key.  

   At the end of "The House At Pooh Corner," by A.A. Milne, there is a scene where Christopher Robin is leaving the Forest.  For good, evidently.  Everyone is aware of it, and no one really knows how to react or how to feel about it.  Christopher Robin and Pooh go alone to an Enchanted place at the very top of the forest, in a ring of trees.  You can see the World from up there.  And Christopher Robin tells Pooh that he has to leave to go down there, into the World.  If my memory serves me, he asks Pooh to promise him that he'll be there waiting for him, even when he (Christopher Robin) is a hundred years old.  Pooh gives his promise.  Then the story closes.  

   That scene and others like it in stories I read and movies I watched troubled me deeply.  It made me want to weep, and I did sometimes, when I was alone.  The thought of leaving Neverland, or of being shut out of Narnia, or of forgetting my faithful imaginary friends filled me with an impossibly deep dread.  

   The world adults inhabited, (so I thought) was one of drudgery and routine.  It wasn't fair, it wasn't right that I was to be wrenched away from every thing that gave my life meaning!  I loved the stories because their plot made more sense than the pointless days I lived.  I could see them, in my mind's eye, stretching out before me like a straight, flat road to the horizon.  Days upon days stacked into weeks, months, then years; all of them similar, monotonous, maddening.  What was there to live *for*, exactly?   

   Shut up all Adventure, Beauty, and Stories into the past?  Forget them?  Put them away?  And for what?  A task list with all the boxes ticked?   

   I could not.  I would not.  It would be an indecency.  An indecency against Being--against Reality itself.  

   "One word, Ma'am," [Puddleglum] said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain.  "One word.  All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder.  I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put a good face I can on it.  So I won't deny all of what you've said.  But there's one thing more to be said, even so.  Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things--trees and grass and sun and moon and Aslan himself.  Suppose we have.  Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.  Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world.  Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one.  And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it.  We're just babies making up a game, if you're right.  But four babies playing a game can make a play-world that licks your real world hollow.  That's why I'm going to stand by the play-world.  I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it.  I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia."  

---"The Silver Chair," by C.S. Lewis.  


   Thank God I was wrong about the world.  It took me a long time to begin to suspect that there was hope (and adventure!) in this life.  You see, my mind was grounded in God's Word, but my heart and emotions were haunted with yearnings that had seemingly no connection with Christ! 

   That's how He got me, you see.  I mean, He called me to salvation as a young child, but as I grew up, He drew me to love Him using the Arts: music, Stories, Creation, beauty.  

   He is the Author of all beauty.  The Author of all the great stories, the ones that matter, the ones that stay with you forever.  He is the Composer of all the good music.  He is the Maker of the trees, the winding rivers, the rolling hills.  His work is as epic as the sea, as grandiose as the mountain ranges, and yet as delicate as the tiniest wildflower, as intimate as a human child, woven in the secret place.  He created laughter, He created drama, He created dance.  He invented Romance--that was all His idea.  He thought up flavors and colors, textures, scents and sounds.  

   He made me.  He wanted my soul to exist in His universe.  And He loves me, not just as His handiwork, but as His daughter.  He wants me to be with Him.  He allured my heart with the Arts, He whispers to me in Stories.  And it seems as though He calls to me from the wilderness.  Perhaps it is His desire for me to seek Him that drives me to run wildly out into the rain, or to scramble up the slopes.  Evidently He---misses me.  Not that He is incomplete without me, of course.  Just---that He made me to adore Him, and He wants me to find my ultimate comfort in Himself, my Great Father. 

   "It was when I was happiest that I longed most.  It was on happy days when we were up there on the hills, the three of us, with the wind and the sunshine...Do you remember?  The color and the smell, and looking across at the Grey Mountain in the distance?  And because it was so beautiful it set me longing, always longing.  Somewhere else there must be more of it.  Everything seemed to be saying, 'Psyche, come!'  But I couldn't (not yet) come and I didn't know where I was to come to.  It almost hurt me.  I felt like a bird in a cage when the other birds of its kind are flying home."  

---"Till We Have Faces," by C.S. Lewis.  

   (C.S. Lewis just *gets* it, doesn't he?!)   

   I went hiking last Saturday.  I was on a trail leading to a waterfall.  Every moss-covered rock seemed to be compelling my heart to rejoice.  The chattering of the stream over the rapids sank into my ears, purging them from all the Noise I'd had to endure all week.  I heard the roar of the waters long before it could be seen.  I hastened ahead, reminding myself inexplicably of a lover anxious to catch sight of his bride.   

   When I finally saw the waterfall, I scrambled across the slippery rocks to find a seat directly in front of it.  I filled my gaze with it, awestruck.  I could hardly tear my eyes away to notice the beauty of the hollow and the ripples of the pool.  For a while I sat there, thinking of everything and nothing.  

   I noticed people were walking up close behind it, and I soon could not rest until I had done the same.  I crossed the rapids and found my way among the massive rocks.  Around, over, and under until I could walk on level rock right up to the falls.  

   I gave my backpack to my friend and slowly advanced.  Cool mist enveloped me as it drifted on the light breeze.  I kept walking until I reached the spray of the falls, and stopped.  Single droplets soared down to me from the overhead ledge like blown kisses.  

   I wasn't dressed to get completely soaked or I probably would have walked right beneath it.  But I edged close enough to put my hands under the waterfall.  They were dirty from all the climbing and scrambling I had done, but in an instant they were clean.  I knew I couldn't leave until I had drunk from the waterfall.  I cupped my hands, but to my disappointment the force of the water splashed nearly all of it right back out again.  So I took what little I had and drank. 

   Water, we claim, has no taste, but I can't agree.  In this country we are spoiled with clear, filtered water, but this water tasted better.  It was cleaner, fresher, more real, somehow.  It tasted of freshness and of spring.  I caught in it the joy of blossoms, the patience of stone, and the vitality of the earth.  

   There is a River of Life, we are told, that flows from the throne of the Lamb.  Those whom He gives the right may drink freely of it for all eternity.  

   I think I am drawn to nature because of what she symbolizes.  I drink from the waterfall, but I want to go beyond the waterfall.  I was given a promise that one day I might swim *up* the Waterfall to find Him beyond.  

   He waits for me beyond the waterfall.  Into the West.  

   He ever calls me---further up and further in.  



~Cadenza