harmony.

the skies were continuously a vibrant shade of blue. with the exception of a few glittering snowflakes that drifted down. the mountains remained overwhelmingly beautiful. with their combination of trees and snow. and though my feet had briefly passed this way before. these moments were different. a soundtrack to follow us around. of guitars and fiddles. of banjos and mandolins. music drifting in the breeze. created by friends. and strangers. gathering together in circles flooded with sunshine. and there were bottomless cups of coffee. and hospitable folks to offer dinner. there were musicians playing on street corners. and hikes amidst the forest. in communion with fellow sojourners. in communion with trees. and mountains. and earth. so gracious to share their space. some compared it to heaven. most wanted to stay indefinitely. we danced when inspired. and we lied in the grass as well. with an openness to our days. moments flowing into the next. quite naturally. without a particular agenda. and there was that view of the glacier from the shore. that stirred a certain awe as we awaited a simple sunset. and to be a fly on the wall. of crowded antiquated hallways. overflowing with spontaneous harmonies. was more than enough. although this collection of scenes made my fingers crave musical strings of their own.

then we boarded planes. to return to winter. after a delicious taste of summer. with hopes that spring is on her way. although she won't be bringing those mountains and trees with her up here. but hopefully bits of those harmonies will follow.

redemption song.

the alleluias don't sound the same here. but there is something sacred. about the voices that are raised. in a language from deep within. a language my ears fail to decipher. that perhaps speaks of faith. that perhaps sings of hope.

so i sit in between worlds. in perpetual uncertainty. of what this means. wondering if the words that come out. derive from deep within. or are merely a lingering echo.

and she walks in. with heavy feet. right before the bread is put away. the moment freezes. but we follow our script.

hands move in rhythm to the melody that is offered. not eskimo dancing. nor a marley song. even though these leftover curls. seek transformation into rasta locks.

and her tears are real. as she requests a rendition. of the old rugged cross. and the words come out. in an out of tune way. still uncertain of meaning. but singing for her. regardless of the deeper questions. the message of hope. of forgiveness. means something in this moment. and is something to cling to.

as moments pass. the world spins on. the stained glass blocks our view. of the gentle april snow. covering what was. with something new. a layer that will also be covered. or melt away. in its impermanence. in its fleeting nature.

yet the snow keeps falling.