The Heart's Eye

Beauty blooms 

full for 

the heart's eye* 

to see.

* ὁ νοῦς

A Gift from Dad

I'm driving home from work listening to Terry Gross interview singer-songwriter Mary Gauthier on the radio.  She sings "Another Train" while playing her guitar and as the chorus glides in on a wave of melancholy, something magical happens in my car on this lonely Ohio road. 

I'm surprised to hear my voice join in with a piercing tenor line that cuts through my heart like a honey-dipped knife.  It's like some kind of spiritual harmonic has welded our voices together, resonating inwardly and outwardly, bigger and fuller than it should be considering I'm using a falsetto voice to catch those high notes. 

It was my Dad who taught me this little bit of magic, the ability to hear the harmony lines to a song and add my voice to the weave.  It started with him inviting me to sing with him in the church choir in my early teens, standing beside him as he pointed out the tenor line and I tried to follow his lead until I could do it on my own. 

The other harmonic lines soon followed and I have added my voice to the likes of James Taylor, Neil Young, and Natalie Merchant, sometimes while washing the dishes and other times while driving my car.  I can think of few things more precious that my Dad could have given me in this short life, certainly not monetary wealth or other coarse offerings, but the gift of joy in the making of music.

"Another Train" by Mary Gauthier

My Son's Closet

My son's closet is as big as it needs to be,
full of books, toys and misplaced articles of clothing.
If one were to clear a space to sit and ponder,
closing the door with an expectant push,
it would expand to encompass
all that is worthwhile in this short life.
The darkness, a comforting presence,
surrounded by familiar objects infused with joy and laughter.
Time would skip along the surface of fond memories,
then sink into something deeper still.

Listening to Arvo Pärt's "Kanon Pokajanen"

***

When I pass,
time will no longer
have a hold on me.
My spirit will
find this place,
this circle of voices,
inhabit it 
and be transported
to where 
love is all in all.

***

Times Square

It's the antithesis of a monastery,
assaulting the eyes and ears,
trying to draw me out, but instead
forcing me to retreat into myself.

The music pumping out of the
sunglasses store is so deafening that
customers must yell to be heard.

Adults are wearing mismatched
superhero costumes that a precocious
three year old could see through
while tourists and ticket sellers
pair off in a sidewalk pas de deux.

Broadway billboards boast of
being the best in some particularity:
longest running, newest, a Tony
for this and a Tony for that with
hyperbole from the New York Post.

The smell of honey-roasted nuts
mix with cigarette smoke and
the grilled meat of street vendors.

It’s overwhelming and underwhelming

all at the same time.