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Way way back on December 16, 2016 – back when this practice was still new – I wrote these words:

I wish I could make sense of this one.  No, seriously. I mean, I get that the lyrics are a rain song, and thus appropriate for a section called The World of Nature. I also get that we want to include voices beyond white men, and thus the hymn led me to learn about Joseph Cotter, Jr, who was an African American playwright and poet who died of tuberculosis at age 24.

But seriously – this too, too simple German tune? … MAYBE this tune sounds okay in a round, but certainly not in a song about dry earth and ancient (I assume native American) drums.

Everything just seems wrong about this.

Well, howdy. I didn’t realize until literally a minute ago that – much like his work on How Sweet the Darkness – had written a much better, much more appropriate tune for these lyrics.

On the dusty earth drum beats the falling rain;
now a whispered murmur, now a louder strain.

Slender, silvery drumsticks on an ancient drum
beat the mellow music bidding life to come.

Chords of life awakened, notes of greening spring,
rise and fall triumphant over everything.

Slender, silvery drumsticks beat the long tattoo —
God, the Great Musician, calling life anew.

The tune that Jason wrote (and which the hymnal commission put together as part of their quodlibet), does echo some of the chant styles we think of as coming from native American tribes, but even without that, the minor key and complexity of the canon works a lot better.

And yet.

I’m not sure even now that I would use it, given the weird conflagration of European American composer, African American lyricist, and sacred imagery that belongs to either (or maybe both?) Native American or African traditions. No offense to Jason, of course – his composition does a whole not more to honor the text than the German-washed-in-the-blood-hymn setting we find in STLT. But even now, I feel uncomfortable as a European American myself considering the use of this without a serious and perhaps belabored content warning.

 

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They say brevity is the source of wit; I can affirm that a stomach flu is the source of brevity.

So I’ll be brief:

The second part of our quodlibet is this chant by Windsong Dianne Martin. As noted on the UUA Song Information page,

This song was written on Spencer’s Butte, Eugene, Oregon in 1985. The composer writes, “I was sitting with my friend David, looking out over the vast view of the Willamette Valley, wondering about the ancient roots of the area, talking about the original native tribes who lived there before the white settlers came. We became quiet and sat in meditation for a long time. I was shifted out of meditation dramatically when I became aware that I was singing the song Mother I Feel You Under My Feet, Mother I Hear Your Heartbeat. I sang it for a long time and was very moved by the experience.”

And here are the lyrics:

Mother I feel you under my feet,
Mother I hear your heart beat,

Chorus:
Heya heya heya ya heya heya ho,
Heya heya heya heya heya ho

Mother I hear you in the river song,
Eternal waters flowing on and on,

Chorus

Father I see you when the eagle flies,
Light of the Spirit, gonna take us higher.

Chorus

I wrestle again, as I always do on these pages, with the exclusively binary language and always wish for “parent” to be one of the verses along with “mother” and “father”… but of course that wasn’t a consideration then, nor is it appropriate to just change a living composer’s lyrics.

Anyway. It’s a good tune and an easy thing to sing – it’s not written as a canon or round but it would certainly work like that if you were not doing the quodlibet thing.

—

Photo of the view from Spencer’s Butte by Tess Freeman/Oregon Daily Emerald.

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Sometimes the universe likes to prepare you in advance for something you will need. In some cases, it’s the impulse buy that comes in handy later that month, or a song you hear that the choir director asks you to sing a week later, or in my case, it’s a conversation on Wednesday that leads to your mentor looking for a different word and stumbling upon Dictionary.com’s word of the day, “quodlibet,” then talking about how it’s probably something I learned in music theory classes when I was young but have forgotten the term for…. and now here we are, a quodlibet set before us.

“But Kimberley, it’s a short chant. How can it be a quodlibet?”

Well, it’s….

“Hate to interrupt, but what the heck is a quodlibet?”

I’m so glad you asked. You see, a quodlibet is “a composition consisting of two or more independent and harmonically complementary melodies, usually quotations of well-known tunes, played or sung together, usually to different texts, in a polyphonic arrangement.” Dictionary.com suggests it is humorous, but I don’t think it has to be – Ysaye Barnwell leads communities of singers in quodlibets of spirituals, and those are quite moving.

Anyway, the whole reason this comes up is that there’s a note at the bottom of this chant – a traditional Navajo prayer – that reads “all of the earth chants, numbers 1069-1072, may be sung at the same time.” And handily, they are all in the same key (C), with the same number of bars (8), and honestly with the same basic theme (connecting to earth, sky, and spirit).

What I love about making a quodlibet out of these songs is that it blends themes from various traditions, along with imagery and language. Not all is gendered – although I totally get why some of it is. Some is true chant in that there are only a few words (like today’s). Others in this set are chant-like but have multiple verses. But all of them are easy to learn and easy to blend.

Today’s is a simple but powerful piece invoking the feminine divine; it’s up to you to decide if it’s about the earth, or about god, or about something else entirely… but it is powerful and beautiful.

Ancient Mother, I hear you calling.
Ancient Mother, I hear your song.
Ancient Mother, I feel your laughter.
Ancient Mother, I taste your tears.

You can hear a version of it by Libana from their album A Circle is Cast here.

Update: In my rush to get to a meeting, I neglected to address the need for care on this piece (thanks to Kristin Grassel Schmidt for noting the oversight):

This chant is from the Navajo tradition, a people who lived in the area we now know as New Mexico. They suffered centuries of colonization and conquest from Europeans, but unlike many native American tribes, they still live for the most part on their ancestral land.

The chant we have above is more than likely part of a much larger religious event called a ‘chantway.’ According to NavajoIndian.net,

The Navajo culture is big into ceremonies and rituals. Their performances are usually four days, two days, or one day. Although some chants could be as long as nine days and require dozens of helpers. The most important ceremonies are the ones for treatment of ills, mental and physical. The Navajo are also very big into nature, so almost every act of their life is a ceremony of nature, including their building of the hogan, or the planting of the crops. All the Navajo culture ceremonies are included with songs and prayers.

In the Navajo culture and traditions there are over 24 different Chantway ceremonies performed by singers, and over twelve hundred different sandpainting designs that are available to the medicine men.

I think it’s important to keep in mind that this chant is distinctive to the Navajo, and that we must use care to not assume a ubiquitous “native American” tradition. Just as the Irish are not the Scottish are not the English, the Navajo are not the Hopi are not the Iroquois.

—

Painting is by Navajo artist Tony Abeyta. Learn more about his artwork here.

 

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This may be one of the most elegantly crafted songs in our hymnals.

I mean no offense to other composers who read this, or to those songs that are also beloved. But there is something absolutely wondrous in this composition by Carolyn McDade.

On its surface, the song is another earth based song of praise and wonder. And a quick listen to the tune suggests it might be an old melody from the British Isles. And on their own, that’s plenty. There’s a great deal of gorgeousness contained within, expressing McDade’s vision of interdependence. As quoted on the UUA Song Information page, McDade writes:

“Earth shakes out a mantle of green—each blade of grass true to the integrity within, yet together with others is the rise of spring from winter’s urging. Our coming is with the grass—the common which persists, unexalted, but with the essence of life. Our humanness, our rhythms and dreams, the faith which nurtures our ardent love and hope for life—all this we share with earth community, of which we are natural and connected beings.”

This song is certainly that:

My blood doth rise in the roots of yon oak, her sap doth run in my veins.
Boundless my soul like the open sky where the stars forever have lain.
Where the stars, where the stars, where the stars forever have lain.

My hands hold the weavings of time without end, my sight as deep as the sea.
Beating, my heart sounds the measures of old, that of love’s eternity.
That of love, that of love, that of love’s eternity.

I feel the tides as they answer the moon, rushing on a far distant sand.
Winging my song is the wind of my breast and my love blows over the land.
And my love, and my love, and my love blows over the land.

My foot carries days of the old into new, our dreaming shows us the way.
Wondrous our faith settles deep in the earth, rising green to bring a new day.
Rising green, rising green, rising green to bring a new day.

But what’s elegant is the way the tune and lyric paint a feeling, an image, a texture, a sense of movement. It begins at the end of the first line of each verse… “sap doth run in my veins”… “sight as deep as the sea”… “rushing on a far distant sand”…”dreaming shows us the way” – each of those phrases evoking something bigger than ourselves, held open with a dotted half note, not ended quickly on the quarter note you were expecting. And then the next phrase soars up a fourth, an arpeggio in the bass clef leading the way, opening up the melody almost like a miracle, with “boundless” and “beating” and “winging” and “wondrous” giving language to that moment of opening and arrival. In the singing and listening, you can hear a sense of hope and release and movement, as the phrase settles back into the notes the verse began with, almost like a wave, or a sudden breeze, or an epiphany.

It is so elegantly crafted. I am in awe.

I should note that I’ve never used this as a congregational song, only as a solo, so I don’t know how easily it’s picked up. I’d like to think this one isn’t too hard, and I hope it’s not taken too slowly or too quickly – or people will miss the beauty that McDade’s piece evokes.

 

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One of the things I love best about pagan ritual is the embodiment of creating sacred space. It’s not just about entering a room and calling it sacred, it’s about being present to the physicality of the room, recognizing our connection to and grounding as part of creation, and visualizing the protective and enlivening presence of the immanent divine. There is intention in creating that sacred space, that ‘time out of time, place out of place’ where we can meet that which we call holy. In some circles, participants are asked to face in the four directions as we ‘call’ them into our presence. And as we do, we do have the sense that we are visualizing the energetic circle being formed around us.

That embodiment is reflected beautifully in this piece by UU composer Amanda Udis-Kessler; her lyrics connect us humans to the interdependent web not just as things to see but as things to feel and be changed by.

Mother Earth, beloved garden, living treasure under foot,
All our days you ground our being: sage and thistle, grass and root.
Herbs to heal us, plants to feed us, land to till and tend and plow.
With the pendant, deep as midnight, North we ask you: be here now.

Father Air, your inspiration holds together all that lives.
As we breathe, our minds see clearly, leading us to love and give.
Raging whirlwind, whispered breezes, violent gale and gentle cloud.
With the blade as sharp as morning, East we ask you: be here now.

Brother Fire, great transformer, share the passion of the sun.
In our hearths, your warmth revives us, cooks our food and heats our homes.
Flaming candle, blood within us, blazing desert, will to grow.
With the wand, directing power, South we ask you: be here now.

Sister Water, ever flowing, ocean, river, pond and rain.
Drink we now and quench our thirsting, cleanse us, we begin again.
Mist and ice, a host of changes, all that courage will allow.
With the cup, the holy chalice, West we ask you, be here now.

Lover Spirit, intuition in the center of our souls.
In your love we find relation. All connected, we are whole.
Timeless mystery, quiet conscience, deepest values, voice inside.
With the drum and with the cauldron, this we ask you, be our guide.

I really like this piece. It’s great, of course, for calling the directions to set sacred space. But it’s also great for talking about how we connect to the planet we call home. Of course, there are issues with the binary language – another case of how far we have come in just 13 years. I’m not sure what to replace them with, and I don’t know if our composer has considered a change, but I hope she has.

Meanwhile, it’s lovely to sing, easy to play, and a definite keeper.

 

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Rejected intro paragraphs:

This makes me think of Greg Greenway, Joe Jencks, and Pat Wictor – the members of the musical group Brother Sun. Except they’ve broken up now, and any memory I have of them has nothing to do with the song.

It’s nice to have a song that’s good to call the directions with…except…wait… huh. I don’t know how you’d do that physically. Never mind.

Let’s start right off with the ugly truth: there’s a lot of binary language. Because I am Captain Obvious.

Who doesn’t love a Scottish melody – because if it isn’t Scottish, it’s crap! Yeah, now I’m just getting silly. Plus, actor/comedian Mike Myers is notoriously a massive, impossible jerk and that’s why he doesn’t make movies anymore.

Well, folks, I’m out of ideas. This song doesn’t move me one way or another, and I can’t seem to find a way in. So… let’s just star. This song, by Sharon Anway, has some nice metaphors for elements of life…

O Brother Sun, you bring us light, all shining ‘round in fiery might.
O Sister Moon, you heal and bless, your beauty shines in tenderness.
O Brother Wind, you sweep the hills, your mighty breath both freshens and fills.
O Sister Water, you cleanse and flow through rivers and streams, in ice and snow.

O Brother Fire, you warm our night with all your dancing colored light.
O Sister Earth, you feed all things, all birds, all creatures, all scales and wings.
O Sister Death, you meet us here and take us to our God so near.
O God of Life, we give you praise for all your creatures, for all your ways.

…which are, by and large, the work of Francis of Assisi. Now normally I’d be cooing over stuff by this particular monk/mystic/saint, because I was born on his feast day and tend to like his mystic writings. But this one has always left me cold. Anway’s setting doesn’t help. The fact that it’s a list doesn’t help either. When we talk about hymns doing some work to get us from one state to another, this one gets me from unchecked-off list to checked-off list without anything actually being accomplished.

Ho hum.

And I’m very likely alone on this. That’s fine. I’m not a fan of it, I struggle to find a way to use it. But blessed are those who do.

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From so much to say to little to say. (Which is, of course, the nature of spiritual practice.)

This is a lovely tune, by  Pablo Fernández Badillo, a Puerto Rican lay minister and federal judge who held various positions in the Puerto Rican government. Yet it is his time as a missionary that led to his songwriting (with 104 hymns published in Himnario Criollo); this song is one of many written in a folk style.

According to the UUA Song Information page,  “Alabanza celebrates the glory of the Creator in the magnificent flowering of the natural world. This nature is filled with the particular accents of Badillo’s homeland, the duende (a smallish, purple flower) and the coquí (a small frog-like animal that makes singing sounds). Alabanza is one of 104 hymns Badillo published in 1977 in Himnario Criollo.”

Spanish:
Al caer la lluvia resurge con verdor,
toda la floresta. ¡Renueva la creación!
Mira el rojo lirio; el duende ya brotó.
¡Bella primavera que anuncia su fulgor!
Toda flor silvestre, la maya, el cundeamor.
¡Todo manifiesta la gloria de mi Dios!

El ‘coquí’ se alegra, se siente muy feliz.
Canta en su alabanza: “coquí, coquí, coquí.”
El pitirre canta y trina el ruiseñor.
¡Cuán alegremente alaban al Creador!
¡Cómo se te alaba en toda la creación!
Yo quisiera hacerlo en forma igual mi Dios.

English:
As the rain is falling, the forest is reborn,
All the fields are verdant; creation is renewed.
Look at the red lily; the ‘duende’ now has bloomed:
Beautiful the springtime, its brilliance showing forth.
Now all of the wildflowers are singing new songs of love,
All manifest surely the glory of our God!

The ‘coquí’ is cheerful, and filled with joy is he,
As he sings the praises: “Coquí, coquí, coquí.”
Mocking bird is chirping, as is the nightingale,
Sounding joyful anthems, a symphony of praise.
How all of creation reflects the glory of God!
I also would offer my songs in praise to God.

I’m sad to say I’m woefully unfamiliar with this one – it seems like a joyous celebration and yet also seems to call for reverence. Truth is, however you perform it, it’ll be a beautiful ode to creation.

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FREEBIRD!

Let me explain (updated 1/22/2018): at General Assembly in Louisville in 2013, despite terrible cell reception, many attendees endeavored to live tweet the events as they unfolded. On Friday morning, we sang Blue Boat Home. Friend and colleague Hannah Roberts made a comment to her friend Meredith Lukow, who tweeted:

… because like “Freebird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd, it is a popular song that people longed to hear, often requested, and reacted to in a kind of rock-anthem awe. The joke spread like wildfire, being retweeted and remarked upon throughout the days. On Sunday morning, Bill Schultz preached about the earth and its inhabitants, and as he finished (to great applause), the band began playing this song. To which Twitter – and more than a few voices in the room – shouted “FREEBIRD!” and more than a few hands in the room held up their hands as though holding a lighter. It was an hysterically transcendent moment.

Which is not surprising, because it is a beautifully transcendent song.

Peter Mayer wrote these gorgeous lyrics to the gorgeous Hyfrodol tune, but he also recast the tune a bit. It’s still in the same meter (3/4), but guitar strums turned to piano notation makes it feel more like 6/8, which makes it feel as rolling and pulsing as the ocean itself. He also extends the final phrase, giving space and room for “blue…. boat… home” to breathe and fill us with wonder.

Though below me, I feel no motion standing on these mountains and plains.
Far away from the rolling ocean still my dry land heart can say:
I’ve been sailing all my life now, never harbor or port have I known.
The wide universe is the ocean I travel and the earth is my blue boat home.

Sun my sail and moon my rudder as I ply the starry sea,
leaning over the edge in wonder, casting questions into the deep.
Drifting here with my ship’s companions, all we kindred pilgrim souls,
making our way by the lights of the heavens in our beautiful blue boat home.

I give thanks to the waves up holding me, hail the great winds urging me on,
greet the infinite sea before me, sing the sky my sailor’s song:
I was born up on the fathoms, never harbor or port have I known.
The wide universe is the ocean I travel, and the earth is my blue boat home.

Really, there is nothing bad to say about this one, except maybe that we can’t use it all the time. Mayer gorgeously captures the awe and wonder of our first source, and the amazing planetary grounding of our seventh principle, along with mysticism and humanism and gratitude.

Really. What a gorgeous song.

—

A short programming note: After today, I have only ten…TEN! hymns left. We’re in the home stretch! On the 11th day, I will write some sort of summary post, and then I’ll take a short sabbatical from daily writing while I figure out what’s next.

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I’m sure there is someone who loves this piece.

I’m sure there is someone who isn’t bothered by gendered language.

I’m sure there is someone who thinks four verses makes a chant.

I am not that someone.

Children of the Earth,
we have come to
sing to each other,
Sister to Brother,
songs of our Mother Earth.

Children of the Earth,
Autumn soon will
breathe her last breath and
quick will her death bear
witness to Winter’s Birth.

Children of the Earth,
can you feel the
air getting cold as
darkness takes hold and
sleep covers Mother Earth?

Children of the Earth,
we have come
to sit in the darkness,
breathe in the silence,
think of our Mother Earth.

Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not the pagan flavor that bothers me one bit. I often talk about the spiritual journey 1992-2004 as my “high pagan days.” I know that my religious experiences in that time – from the solitary to the communal – inform much of who I am today; it was in those days that I learned the ‘year and a day’ of spiritual study and practice that sparked Hymn by Hymn. I learned a great deal about shared ritual, the power of chant, the richness of the elements.

But I also learned that by and large, pagan chants leave me wanting. I’m not sure why, but there are only one or two that I think of with affection or even remember. And this one is not one of them.

I mean, it’s not a bad song. Phillip Palmer offers something interesting in the middle of his song, but it ends with a thud, and no amount of beautiful arranging by Jeannie Gagné can fix a thud like that.

But let’s not kid ourselves: this is not a chant. A chant is a short musical passage that is repeated. This is a song, with four verses. Yet because of the misleading title, countless winter solstice service coordinators – myself included – tried to figure out of how to use this as a chant, and it just doesn’t play well that way.

Anyway. I’m feeling curmudgeonly about this one. To the person who loves it, sorry.

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So… I have thoughts. In no particular order:

Jim Scott does like a long verse, doesn’t he? (No judgment, really, just noticing that his song make for long hymns.)

It took three phrases to become a Jim Scott song, because he has a signature style – and then it’s very much a Jim Scott composition. (Again, no judgment – more of an ‘oh!’ when we get there.)

If you omit the first verse, this is a great child dedication song. (And maybe you don’t even have to omit the first verse, if you can hang through “ancient story” and “longest night.”

Ancient story lived again, dark of longest night.
Birth of innocence and hope kindles our delight.
All celebrate the labor’s end.
Forth in laughter, tear and smile.
Light of love and joy extend all around the child

New life fragile yet complete, life from love once more.
Universal miracle, faith in life restore.
The harmony of all the world
lulls the newborn child to rest.
Welcome dreamer, safely sleep on your mother’s breast.

May our wonder never cease, Nature’s greatest art.
Birth and breath of life again warms the coldest heart.
Now rich and simple gifts bestowed,
Sacred promises well made.
Reverence and hope renewed all around the babe.

Vision for humanity, all around the child.
Loving as one family all around the child.
Life passages well understood,
known and felt around the earth;
Rich or poor we each are blessed by the miracle of birth.

Which brings me to the last thought (well, almost – I’m trying to figure out his use of the word “forth” in the first verse): this is a very non-offensive hymn for a group of people who are offended by celebrating the birth of Jesus every year and the explicit nature of many beloved carols. And I get it. I mean, I have personally heard the criticisms of a rather Christian Christmas Eve service (“because it’s Christmas-freaking-Eve” I want to shout but don’t), and I suspect this piece comforts people because while some of the key notes are hit (“reverence and hope renewed”, “miracle of birth”, “the child”, “ancient story”, etc.) there’s nothing terribly explicit about the birth of Jesus – thus my assertion that this could be used for a child dedication. You know it’s a Christmas song because we put it in the Christmas section and hint to it, but it’s really quite ubiquitous.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s a good song, and I have used it. It’s one of the easier Jim Scott pieces for a congregation to sing, as long as there are strong song leaders for the Scott turn in the third phrase. I am always impressed with Jim’s lyricism and turns of phrase.

But my thoughts have turned into feelings, and something isn’t feeling right to me. Maybe it’s the grief talking, maybe it’s the exhaustion of so many days of hymns, maybe it’s the spectre of a new project that involves the Bible. The truth is, I am not sure what I’m feeling about it, but it feels tender to me.

Anyway. Don’t be put off by its length. Or break it up. Or pick a couple of verses. And have a strong song leader.

—

Another image from Pixabay. Babies come with hats.