Every season has a song. Rhythm wrapping the heart.
Songs for every sure step, every powdered dream.
Steps and dreams sometimes suspend.
There’s a song for that too.
Music like a back-lit haze pulls me in, compels my heart to be still.
By myself, I crank it loud and feel the silence; suspended between stars, reverb drawing my heart into catatonic holiness.
Four chords carry a bridge and I’m weightless in depths of peace. Nine minutes painting a path to eternity, muted timelessness.
A frozen moment broken with a single beat grows to two and three.
Carried to the highest of holy as the beat drives deeper giving my own broken heart a rest.
There are times when there’s nothing more to be done.
Times for standing in the season.
Times to resist taking cover. To feel the wind sting your face knowing that there is nothing new under the sun.
Or the stars.
Nothing in the depths that wasn’t fashioned before time.
Every drop traveling the heights to the depths washing hearts with Peace.
says the Teacher.
Everything is meaningless.”
What do people gain from all their labors
at which they toil under the sun?
Generations come and generations go,
but the earth remains forever.
The sun rises and the sun sets,
and hurries back to where it rises.
The wind blows to the south
and turns to the north;
round and round it goes,
ever returning on its course.
All streams flow into the sea,
yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,
there they return again.
All things are wearisome,
more than one can say.
The eye never has enough of seeing,
nor the ear its fill of hearing.
What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
Is there anything of which one can say,
“Look! This is something new”?
It was here already, long ago;
it was here before our time.
No one remembers the former generations,
and even those yet to come
will not be remembered
by those who follow them.
Ecclesiastes 1: 2-11
You can find this entire series here.