in the Lowlands

Sometimes words fail.

For me, that time is encountered more often than not. I've always found writing to be easier than speaking, and music easier than writing. Recently, it has been a song by the pianist George Winston entitled "Billy in the Lowlands," that reaches a part of me that my mouth or pen cannot. Whatever it is that impels me to pour myself into this song every day, I cannot explain.

This week is a strange one. A dear friend is leaving. Another is arriving. A lot of things that want to be said cannot be, simply for lack of words. Yet somewhere in the music we make, what wants to be said becomes evident.

I've had this image on my mind for a while. A sunset on Cumberland Island, which more closely resembles a sunrise. The clouds fetch twice the glory in the plate glass water of Christmas Creek. There's something about clouds, too that is difficult for me to explain. Why, for example, the frayed lattice of an altocumulus heap can put me at peace. This year I hope to delve into that question and hopefully, after a year, be able to express some sort of answer, whatever the medium.

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