My new CD is finished. The recording, mixing, and mastering are done. Now on to the graphics and then, once I save the money, off it'll go to Oasis for duplication. I have listened to each song at least fifty times, probably more. Bruce Roberts, who produced the CD along with his wife Lorna, has been sending me the songs as mp3 files while they were in progress. I'd listen, make notes, send feedback, he'd make changes (or not) and send them back to me again. He sent me the final version last Monday, so I have listened and listened, making sure everything is just right, double listening for any errors, glitches, or otherwise. And I am happy and satisfied with the finished project.
And then I listened more. And I've continued to listen to it. Not because I want to hear myself, but because I want to hear the songs and hear their stories again, let them take me back to where they came from. Music is such an incredibly powerful thing. And for me, this music tells my own story - my thoughts, my feelings - it has the power to pick me up from where I am and transport me - setting me right down in the middle of all its history. I listen to this CD, its sixteen songs, and it takes me so many wonderful places and through so many different experiences and feelings: the edge of Linville Gorge in the early morning hours watching the sun rise; "the old house", Crystal's place up at the foot of Roan Mountain (where so many of the songs came to life); the windy coast of Ireland; the Mayan ruins of Guatemala; Russia and the orphanage there; the bedside of a praying, brave Guatemalan woman who changed my life; my father's hospital room; the backyard of the house I grew up in or at the kitchen table with my mom and dad; curled up in the big brown chair with my son, Jacob; sitting in the kitchen, listening to Daniel tell a story about Ashe County; Ashe County itself; Boone; a little cabin in the middle of the week in the middle of January at Smith Mountain Lake State Park (where I had the entire state park to myself and wrote two songs to keep from being spooked!!); the little back porch of my house in Morganton (probably the only house that will ever have been my own); sitting beside my friend Bobbi, with her expectant smile and her gentle way of coaxing a song out of me; gathered around Cindy's firepit............ it just goes on and on. Each one, with its story, its birth, its meaning inside my heart. I can't stop listening. They are my story. They are my heart.
My father always understood the power of music. He surrounded us with it as we were growing up. All kinds of music. And, just a few weeks before he died, when words befuddled him and he struggled to say what he meant, he found meaning and comfort in songs that he could hum, whistle, remember. In the hospital, he said to me, "I keep going back to the music. All those little notes and how they line up. There's a lot of love in those notes. You have to pay attention or those notes will just pass you by." I understood part of his message at the time, but not his whole message. Now I'm being to understand the whole of it. Because it isn't just the little notes that need our attention. And because it isn't just MY music that does that - all music does that. It holds love, sadness, joy, tenderness, fear, praise, thankfulness, happiness - you name it, and I'll bet you I can find you a song that holds it inside.
It is so powerful.
I miss my dad so much. He is with me; whenever I sing - ah! there he is! Oh but that I could sing all the day long.
I can't wait to share the CD with you.
Peace all.
