Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight.
Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away. . . O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. ~Siegried Sassoon “Everyone Sang”
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me. ~Emily Dickinson “Hope is the thing with feathers”
When it feels like the world is rent in two, and the gulf into which we topple too wide and dark to climb without help, we can look to the sky and see the birds’ stitching and hear their wordless singing, the careful caring line of connection pulling us out of a hopeless hole, startled and grateful to be made whole. Hope borne on feathered wings: may we fly threaded and knitted to one another, singing.
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I am here to modestly report seeing in an orchard in my town a goldfinch kissing a sunflower again and again dangling upside down by its tiny claws steadying itself by snapping open like an old-timey fan its wings again and again, until, swooning, it tumbled off and swooped back to the very same perch, where the sunflower curled its giant swirling of seeds around the bird and leaned back to admire the soft wind nudging the bird’s plumage, and friends I could see the points on the flower’s stately crown soften and curl inward as it almost indiscernibly lifted the food of its body to the bird’s nuzzling mouth whose fervor I could hear from oh 20 or 30 feet away and see from the tiny hulls that sailed from their good racket, which good racket, I have to say was making me blush, and rock up on my tippy-toes, and just barely purse my lips with what I realize now was being, simply, glad, which such love, if we let it, makes us feel. ~Ross Gay “Wedding Poem” from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude
For the last several days I’ve heard an insistent tapping at my kitchen window bird feeder.
A flash of yellow feathers makes the racket drawing my attention; I figure he wants the feeder refilled.
Yet it is full.
This goldfinch is wanting my attention, not more sunflower seeds.
When I approach the window, he wings off, returning only if I retreat to the shadows.
Then his tapping resumes.
He can see me in the shadows, watching him watching me.
I think he is simply enjoying making noise, as his thanks for the feast of seeds in a world of desperate hunger and despair.
So much like the good racket we make when we sing in church, thanking God when His swirling seeds of love and care are bestowed upon us.
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Some claim the origin of song was a war cry some say it was a rhyme telling the farmers when to plant and reap don’t they know the first song was a lullaby pulled from a mother’s sleep said the old woman
A significant factor generating my delight in being alive this springtime is the birdsong that like a sweeping mesh has captured me like diamond rain I can’t hear it enough said the tulip
Lifetime after lifetime we surged up the hill I and my dear brothers thirsty for blood uttering our beautiful songs said the dog ~Alicia Suskin Ostriker “Song” from The Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog
To be blessed is to know God is inside all created things, even those seemingly hopeless.
To be blessed is to sing a lullaby of loving kindness that settles a restless heart.
To be blessed is to become a blessing so contagious, there is no hope of cure.
AI image created for this post
Lyrics: Oh! Hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us, And black are the waters that sparkled so green. The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us, At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow, Oh weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease! The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow swinging seas! ~Rudyard Kipling “The White Seal”
translated lyrics from the Lakota: Ah I say, I say to you I am speaking to you… Ah I say, I say to you To you I am saying it My kind-hearted boy go to sleep Tomorrow will be nice I am speaking to you
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I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals— I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting— I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,— When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings— I know why the caged bird sings! ~Paul Dunbar “Sympathy”
A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom. ~Maya Angelou “Caged Bird”
photo by Harry Rodenberger
Three weeks old when its mother allowed me a peek in the nest to spy its fledgling wings; she did her best to hide it from view.
It was another week before it was clear this youngster could not stand or perch, its legs deformed, sprawled and spraddled.
It flopped rather than hopped out of the nest at five weeks, fluttering to the ground in pursuit of freedom outside its mother’s wings.
Crouched next to seed and water, it fed itself, tucked in a corner watching others come and go. Its desire to live so strong, its voice forming in its throat.
Though it could not stand and might never fly – even so, this bird sang of its longing for freedom just so our hearts may hear.
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Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her. The summer mornings begin inch by inch while we sleep, and walk with us later as long-legged beauty through the dirty streets. It is no surprise that danger and suffering surround us. What astonishes is the singing. We know the horses are there in the dark meadow because we can smell them, can hear them breathing. Our spirit persists like a man struggling through the frozen valley who suddenly smells flowers and realizes the snow is melting out of sight on top of the mountain, knows that spring has begun. ~Jack Gilbert “Horses at Midnight Without a Moon”
As if — we are walking through the darkest valley, still stuck in the throes of winter, and catch a whiff of a floral scent, or a hint of green grass, or hear the early jingle bells song of peeper frogs in the wetlands, or feel the warm breath of horses puffing steam at night.
As if — there is hope on the other side, refreshment and renewal and rejoicing only around the corner.
As if — things won’t always be frozen or muddy or barren, that something is coming behind the snowdrops and crocus.
The snow is melting, imperceptibly, but melting nonetheless. And that, in turn, melts me…
This year’s Lenten theme: So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corinthians 4: 18
With a century old choral society With a Christmas tradition of singing Handel’s Messiah.
Sixty-some enthusiastic singers recruited without auditions Through church bulletin announcements:
Farmers, store clerks, machinists, students Grade schoolers to senior citizens
Gather in an unheated church for six weeks of rehearsal To perform one man’s great gift to sacred music.
Handel, given a libretto commissioned to compose, Isolated himself for 24 days – barely ate or slept,
Believed himself confronted by all heaven itself To see the face of God,
And so created overture, symphony, arias, oratorios Soaring, interwoven themes repeating, resounding
With despair, mourning, anticipation Renewal, redemption, restoration, triumph.
Delicate appoggiaturas and melismata Of astounding complexity and intricacy.
A tapestry of sound and sensation unparalleled, To be shouted from the soul, wrung from the heart.
This changing group of rural people gathers annually to join voices Honoring faith foretold, realized, proclaimed.
Ably led by a forgiving director with a sense of humor And a nimble organist with flying feet and fingers.
The lilting sopranos with angel song, The altos a steadfast harmonic support,
The tenors echo plaintive prophecy The base voices remain full and resonant.
The strings paint a heaven-sent refrain In a duet of counterpoint melody.
The audience sits, eyes closed Remembering oft-repeated familiar verses.
The sanctuary overflows With thankfulness and praise as we shall be changed.
Glory to God! For unto us a Child is born And all the people, whether singers or listeners, are comforted.
Dan and Emily after the 2008 Messiah performance
This year’s Advent theme “Dawn on our Darkness” is taken from this 19th century Christmas hymn:
Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, dawn on our darkness and lend us your aid. Star of the east, the horizon adorning, guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. ~Reginald Heber -from “Brightest and Best”
Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come– ~Chinese Proverb
photo by Harry Rodenberger
I heard a wood thrush in the dusk Twirl three notes and make a star— My heart that walked with bitterness Came back from very far.
Three shining notes were all he had, And yet they made a starry call— I caught life back against my breast And kissed it, scars and all. ~Sara Teasdale, featured in “The Wood” in Earth Song
…then came a sound even more delicious than the sound of water. Close beside the path they were following, a bird suddenly chirped from the branch of a tree. It was answered by the chuckle of another bird a little further off. And then, as if that had been a signal, there was chattering and chirruping in every direction, and then a moment of full song, and within five minutes the whole wood was ringing with birds’ music, and wherever Edmund’s eyes turned he saw birds alighting on branches, or sailing overhead or chasing one another or having their little quarrels or tidying up their feathers with their beaks. ~C.S. Lewis from The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe
Their song reminds me of a child’s neighborhood rallying cry—ee-ock-ee—with a heartfelt warble at the end. But it is their call that is especially endearing. The towhee has the brass and grace to call, simply and clearly, “tweet”. I know of no other bird that stoops to literal tweeting. ~Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven. ~Emily Dickinson in an 1885 letter to Miss Eugenia Hall
I need reminding that what I offer up from my heart predicts what I will receive there.
If I’m grumbling and falling apart like a dying vine instead of a vibrant green tree~~~ coming up empty and hollow with discouragement, entangled in the cobwebs and mildew of worry, only grumbling and grousing~~~ then no singing bird will come.
It is so much better to nurture the singers of joy and gladness with a heart budding green with grace and gratitude, anticipatory and expectant.
My welcome mat is out and waiting.
The symphony can begin any time now…
Original Barnstorming artwork note cards available as a gift to you with a $50 donation to support Barnstorming – information here
Yesterday, running slowly in the gravel I saw a tiny bird feathered pulsating globe of white and gray on its back black pinprick eyes pointing up to the sky. I stooped down closely to peer. We stared at one another— creature to creature— for a small eternity. I scooped him into my hands and placed him gently an offering upright onto the grass whispering a prayer to the One who sees and knows each one every sparrow and every sorrow. ~Karen Swallow Prior “Creature to Creature”
photo by Harry Rodenberger
Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God. Why, even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not; you are of more value than many sparrows. Luke 12: 6-7
Typically, I hear sparrows more than see them most of the year. They are shy little birds and fly away any time I approach them. But during the winter months when the northeast arctic winds are blowing, they cling to the rose bushes beneath my bird feeders, fluffed up to try to stay warm, buffeted about by the breeze, just trying to stay alive. Singing is the last thing on their little minds.
This is when we need each other the most; the sparrow is hanging on the best it can to make it to spring and so am I, seeking to nurture some small part of Creation in order to keep simmering my hope for the future. Although there is no sparrows’ song lilting in the air during the coldest months, I know it will return.
So I sing for them.
I sing because I’m happy. I sing because I’m free. His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.
Why should I feel discouraged, Why should the shadows come, Why should my heart be lonely, And long for Heav’n and home, When Jesus is my portion? My constant friend is He: His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me; His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me.
Refrain
I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free, For His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me.
Let not your heart be troubled, His tender word I hear, And resting on His goodness, I lose my doubts and fears; Though by the path He leadeth, But one step I may see; His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me; His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me.
Whenever I am tempted, Whenever clouds arise, When songs give place to sighing, When hope within me dies, I draw the closer to Him, From care He sets me free; His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me; His eye is on the sparrow, And I know He watches me.
Lyrics by Civilla Martin
ot one sparrow is forgotten, E’en the raven God will feed; And the lily of the valley From His bounty hath its need. Then shall I not trust Thee, Father, In Thy mercy have a share? And through faith and prayer, my Mother, Merit Thy protecting care?
Shaker Hymn (Canterbury Shakers Hymnal, 1908)
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My life flows on in endless song Above earth’s lamentation I hear the sweet, though far-off hymn That hails a new creation Through all the tumult and the strife I hear that music ringing It finds an echo in my soul How can I keep from singing? ~Robert Lowry
We recently returned from an out of state visit with two grandsons, ages two and six months. They love being sung to – they rock and bop to melodies and rhythms and then relax to sleep listening to us sing the quiet evening hymns we sang to his father at night.
They will see so much in their lifetimes that we can’t even imagine. Already in their short time on earth there have been plenty of cataclysmic events, and without a doubt, more are in store.
No matter what comes, we pray they will always hear their parents’ and four grandparents’ voices resounding inside their heads when things get rough. The hymns and the prayers said over them will give them calm and confidence in the face of troubles, tumult and strife.
God’s reality and truth are shared with them in songs and words every day, and as they someday raise children of their own, how can they keep from singing that out whenever it is most needed?
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
My life flows on in endless song, above earth’s lamentation. I catch the sweet, though far-off hymn that hails a new creation.
Refrain: No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that Rock I’m clinging. Since Love is lord of heav’n and earth, how can I keep from singing?
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear that music ringing. It finds an echo in my soul. How can I keep from singing?
What though my joys and comforts die, I know my Savior liveth. What though the darkness gather round? Songs in the night he giveth.
I lift mine eyes the cloud grows thin I see the blue above it And day by day this pathway smooths Since first I learned to love it
The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart, a fountain ever springing! All things are mine since I am his! How can I keep from singing?
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Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song. Sing to the One who mends our broken hearts with music. Sing to the One who fills our empty hearts with love. Sing to the One who gives us light to step into the darkest night. Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song. ~Susan Boersma
Sixty-seven years, oh Lord, to look at the clouds, the trees in deep, moist summer,
daisies and morning glories opening every morning
their small, ecstatic faces— Or maybe I should just say
how I wish I had a voice like the meadowlark’s,
sweet, clear, and reliably slurring all day long
from the fencepost, or the long grass where it lives
in a tiny but adequate grass hut beside the mullein and the everlasting,
the faint-pink roses that have never been improved, but come to bud
then open like little soft sighs under the meadowlark’s whistle, its breath-praise,
Each day opens to new possibility with a sigh, a breath and thankfulness-
once in awhile tears, sometimes heartbreak, and flat out fear of what comes next.
Even so, through it all I sing a song of praise, an alleluia that reminds me why I am and who I live for.
All is well, it is well with my soul.
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
When time sweeps yesterday away, It leaves behind an empty heart, Weeping through the night so dark and long. When words are lost among the tears, When sadness steals another day, God hears our cries and turns our sighs into a song.
Sing to the One who mends our broken hearts with music. Sing to the One who fills our empty hearts with love. Sing to the One who gives us light to step into the darkest night. Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song.
From heaven falls a mercy sweet, The time for weeping now is gone; God hears our sighs and gives us His eternal song. Sing to the One who mends our broken hearts with music. Sing to the One who fills our empty hearts with love.
Translation: Lord, protect Ukraine. Give us strength, faith, and hope, our Father. Amen
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