Learning to trust the path...labyrinths...

A couple of weeks ago, I had the honor of being the guest musician for a conference entitled "Being Whole in the Eyes of God" at Stony Point Center, a retreat center about an hour outside of NYC. This particular event's focus was on how churches can be more welcoming and inclusive of people with disabilities. For me, it was also a reminder that all of us share brokenness, whether it is physical or spiritual or emotional-- and that this brokenness is often where we encounter the presence of God. I know that I encountered God's Spirit in this gathering of friends.

While I was at Stony Point, I visited my favorite spot on their property: a stone labyrinth (see photo). One thing I love about labyrinths is that there is only one way to walk, and even though you can't tell how you'll reach the center, and that the path is windy and seems to sometimes take you further away from the center rather than closer to it, you actually trust that you are moving towards an arrival point-- because if you stay on the path, you do indeed make it to the center. This reminds me of a poem by Denise Levertov that I set back in 2004 for Concentus, a women's choir based in Rochester. The poem, "I learned that her name was Proverb," speaks of how everyone we meet, whether we recognize them or not, lead us into our own labyrinths "towards the time and the unknown place where we shall know what it is to arrive."

Right now I feel like I am in a labyrinth trying to get my sacred music CD out, trying to book tours, trying to have mental and emotional rest. I struggle with trusting that I will reach an arrival point. This is why walking labyrinths is so helpful to me- it is a reminder that all I must do is walk on the path that has been given to me and trust that God is leading me. So simple, yet so hard.

I heard the voice…but I changed its music

Last week, I finished mixing my upcoming sacred music recording, From This Place. Three of the pieces are new settings to hymn texts from various nineteenth century writers.

I love the fact that words have potential to become new for us. I think that’s why in so many faith traditions, sacred scriptures are read again and again—we somehow get another chance to become part of the story.

But often, words can become stale, or overused, and their power is diluted. When words are married with music, in order for the words to be more than just words, there has to be a combination of melody, harmony, and text that allows the words to penetrate our spirits in a deeper way than they would if we were just saying them, or reading them.

I love many old hymns, but to be honest, sometimes I find myself loving a particular text more than a particular tune that’s been married to the text. Case in point: an 1846 text by the Scottish hymn writer, Horatius Bonar, called “I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say.” I’ve heard various musical settings of this text, but Bonar’s lyrics jumped out at me as wanting a new setting that would breathe as the “resting place” that is found in the presence of God. Bonar’s first verse reads:

I heard the voice of Jesus say,
“Come unto me and rest;
lay down my weary one,
lay down your head upon my breast.”

I came to Jesus as I was,
so weary, worn, and sad;
I found in Him a resting place,
And He has made me glad.

Each of the three verses speak of hearing God’s voice, and then of responding in some way. I responded by writing a new setting—you can hear the first two verses here.

A week of silence and beauty

A week and a half ago, I went on my third silent retreat. This one was a week in length, and was held at the Linwood Spiritual Center in Rhinebeck, NY. One side of the retreat house is where the sisters of St. Ursula live; the other side is for retreatants. The center has gorgeous views of the Hudson River, and I spent time every day walking to a nearby waterfall (see photo).

Many people have asked me why I voluntarily spent seven days in silence, or what on earth I did with all of my time. For myself, I often get caught up in seeing time as an enemy- there's either not enough of it to do the work that I think I have to do, or there's too much of it when I feel alone and want to have the companionship of another person. But the amazing thing is that I have come to experience through silence a sense of God's presence in a deeper way than I normally do when I go to church. I never knew before silent retreats what it meant to rest in God.

I came to Linwood so tired that the first night when I sat in the armchair in my little room, tears came to my eyes as I realized that I was not required to do anything. All I had to do was to try to be open to God's Spirit. Now as I am back in New York City dealing with the day-to-day, I am trying to open myself more to be aware of God's presence all around me.

Our culture does not reward sitting around and not "producing." While I was on retreat, I read a book by the late Jewish theologian, Abraham Joshua Heschel, called The Sabbath. Heschel says that we often equate productivity with goodness (and hence, not being productive is not a good thing). I see this in myself and want to spend more time simply enjoying the presence of God, whether I am looking at a waterfall, sitting at my computer, or spending time with a friend.

From This Place

I'm resurrecting this almost unused blog, mainly so that I can give some background for my upcoming sacred jazz recording, From This Place. The title track is a piece that I wrote back in March of 2007 for an Easter jazz vespers at Saint Peter's Church in New York City. I wanted to write something that would be appropriate with the passages for the day. One of the passages was the story of one of Christ's followers, Mary Magdalene. In the story, Mary goes to Christ's tomb three days after he has been crucified. She finds the tomb empty, and meets the risen Christ (who she at first mistakenly identifies as the gardener). Afterwards, she runs to report the news to other followers of Christ.

I wrote "From This Place" as a meditation, wondering how Mary might have felt from the moment she wakes up in the morning and remembers that Christ is dead to the moment she is bewildered at the tomb, to the moment when she recognizes Christ.

Rather than post some of the lyrics sans music, here is a link with a clip from the piece.

For me, this entire recording has been a powerful experience of delving into texts and images. I'm singing on most of the pieces (as opposed to some of my earlier recordings where I primarily play piano), and I have felt like the whole record is an active prayer. If you'd like more information on the recording, or would like to place a pre-order, visit my website.

Late night before a tour

So much for blogging about Brasil...I had grand ideas of adding more photos from the festival in Recife where I played in November, but instead, I spent December finishing out a semester at grad school, then getting busy with Christmas, and finally, getting ready to go on the road tomorrow for an eight-day trip. I am always amazed at how much work it is to be the road manager, booker, and musician when it comes to my own gigs. I've actually spent three full days in my apartment, doing nothing but publicity/logistics/road stuff to get ready for the trip. I'll be heading to Toronto to present a workshop on the sacred music of Mary Lou Williams, called Moving with the Spirit. I'm very excited about the project, which will be with my trio as well as with some spoken historical info from Dr. Tammy Kernodle, who wrote a biography on Williams.

Since the showcase is a non-paying gig (it pays off in other ways!), I've booked a bunch of gigs in Rochester and Buffalo on my way up to Toronto. It's now after midnight, and two hours ago I decided to rewrite my bio (if you're curious to see the result, it's up at my website, deannajazz.com). I don't recommend rewriting your bio the night before you go on tour when you still haven't figured out how to fit your cds in your suitcase, but sometimes you have to just follow the urge...and I like the new bio!