On the forgotten sense of listening

After purging myself of all my rage the other day, I sought solace in one of my favourite books, namely, "Uncovering the voice". I've rewritten my favourite chapter for you, "On the forgotten sense of listening". I cried me a river when I first read it - mind you, it was when I had just given birth to my little 18 month old babe, so it might have been the hormones! - and it touches my soul every time I re-read it. There's a lot to learn from this chapter, and not just about singing. I hope you enjoy it.

In the early May morning twilight, we stepped slowly down towards the valley through the glistening green. The last veils of mist passed gently and silvery, before us, bestowing the numberless beds on each leaf, each blade of grass. The blossom stars greeted us tenderly with their colours woven of light: a magic hush spread round us. Our breath scarcely flowed; and our heart was aware. We were entering a realm hitherto shrouded from us, where nature's deep mysteries are at work.

And as we stood there, still, sunken in ourselves, a gentle sorrow took us, as it takes the traveller who is allowed to witness a solemn ritual but can know nothing of its deepest sense.

There above us in the flowering tree, a small singer pipes up rejoicing. Out of the enchanted stillness, we were startled so suddenly that we could feel the beating of our hearts. Like morning bells, flight of soul, deepest devotion, it poured from the tiny throat. What solemn beauty in this deed! Oh, if but we human beings could be so wholly true and devoted!

The ache it grew and grew in our soul: the human being envied the creature.

But in the midst of the streaming floods of song, the little bird abruptly ceased. What had happened? Did it fly away? Did we frighten it?

No, it still sat on the flowering branch - but motionless, rigid and silent. In the little creature's posture, such overwhelming tension was expressed that it seemed to penetrate into our own limbs - we stood as though spellbound.

Is it waiting? Does it see something invisible to our gaze? Intuitively we know the truth: it is listening, depply listening to the re-sounding of its own rivers of song as they swing ever higher into the blue morning-ether. And the same holy stillness spread irresistibly over valley and hill: breathless listening, the sacrifice which nature offers to its creator. 'And man? What sacrifice does creation's highest being offer?'

The question is born in the anxious silence of our soul. 'Sacrifice? He? - Does he then know of his own true origin? Does he yet know the way to his father's house? Does he not stand exiled like a pariah, gaping and foreign, while all about him sacred revelation unfolds? To whom, then, should he bring offering, to whom?' - Instead of an answer, our soul brought forth only yawning emptiness. And only one of those questions is yet touched, other urge forward: "Stood I, man, always so abandoned? Was never my being bound up with yours, never intimate? But how then can pain and longing be born in me at the sight of your deed of sacrifice? - Have I drunk so deeply from the cup of forgetfulness? - Surely once I was a member of the circle of creation, surely once I swayed as a brother in the round-dance of all being?'

Then, in the deepest shaft of memory an intimation awakens, and suddenly forms itself into certainty: 'On the earthly pilgrimage you have forgotten the true origin of your being. In times now long forgotten, you also knew the bliss of sacrifice, but forgetting spread out its dark wings and covered it. - So you forgot sacrifice, you forgot listening: the dust of untruth settled upon your singing, robbed it of its cleansing power and riveted it fast to your body's heaviness.' Not so the creature. In its tiniest stirring of a muscle, there is listening. 'Will this offering of gratitude rise to the bright portal? Was the power of giving pure and holy? Or does the weight of earth lie too heavy on the sing-beats of the tones? O messenger of God, may one created by you bring his reverent offering?'

Anxious expectation in the creature. Enchanted, deeply hushed in listening, nature also asks. Expectation extends through space, becomes a being in itself, penetrating creatively inot the soul of the two human listeners. The bond breaks! Unsealed, our eye gropes, our ear reaches out, the breath makes ready for a spring: 'Behold, there it comes, it comes towards us from on high!' Golden fleece yet untouched by earthly sun-rays. Out of regions which have no need of the day's star, blessing floods down mildly to earth. Heaven's gates stand opened wide! On radiant wings, beings most exalted in myriads bear blessing-power down, and their flight becomes harmonious accords! The greeting of the cosmos comes tenderly down to the little singer, lovingly dissolving his rigidity: "Yes, your offering is heard, your listening accepted, accepted is the listening of all your brothers - take in return the gift of blessing, blessing for the earthly ground that must bear all creatures!'

But then, with primordial solemnity, almost punishing the hearing ear, there intone the words: 'Sighing under the weight of man's debt, whose darkening power was felt into the very cosmos, the earth itself once waited transfixed with pain, turning heavenwards in breathless listening: the Sun King descended to the earth-world below, o fathomless mystery! To the earth's suppressed and doleful toning HE gave new sound, and ordered it again into the ringing of the spheres. Let the earth and all creatures praise their creator with their song, with their toning, evermore - and holy is their deed. Yet their listening forms itself into a vessel; and this they hold up to the divine worlds, to receive the stream of mercy from above.

'Human being, were you not also given a voice, one whose beauty is incomparably more sublime than all the wonders you can hear on earth? Will the thought not dawn on you, that blessings of thousandfold grace wait for you, when you will find the strength to purify your earthbound voice that thought its sacred song of supplication it can reach into the spirit-realm? The will to sacrifice will point the way for it. But first, with courage seek to form the chalice, precious and pure, seek to learn hearkening, innermost listening. Hearkening's holy cup, hold it up to the starry worlds - wait in trust, until a blessing shower may fill it.' The earnest words die away. The forces of earthly heaviness engage once more in their accustomed spheres of power. Heaven's portal of grace is closed.

Awakening as out of a deep dream, our senses returned; we looked upon one another, shyly - shaken to the very bottom of our soul. Involuntarily our eye sought longingly the first ray of morning sun.

New dignity gave power to our hearts, the stream flowed through our limbs, and slowly we began to step, turning in deep silnece towards our earthly dwelling place.