Wednesday before the Thanksgiving holiday found me in Wawa (our convenience store/deli) this morning. I was preparing meself a wee cup of Kona coffee (it's some kinda Hawaiian blend, a little nutty flavor, my favorite), when I heard a song playing through the store. I had never heard it before, but instantly knew I loved it. You know what I'm talking about? I didn't know the artist or even the words, it was playing so low. But I instantly knew it was one of my songs.
You know what I mean. It had that melody, the kind that speaks in my native tongue, that language that needs no parsing and no tense. It is always Now. Always Then. Always shimmering with the possibility of What Will Be.
As far as I'm concerned, good music is an invitation to contemplation. It's a kind of sacramental, wrapping truth and beauty in melodic clothes.
So I stood there as the three people ahead of me had their stuff rung up; bagel, pack of gum, milk, coffee. And all the while I was getting zapped in the middle of a busy morning at Wawa. That music was like a sniper, hitting my heart in the midst of a crowded place, and it can us too in busy streets, in the deserts of solitude, in wide open fields of the soul where we are alone, in the wind over the water of the ocean of our being. What a power it has to strike us down, melt the heart, fire it up, send it hurtling through our days with new insights, new vision, new energy.
"Music is the language of Heaven."
- Peter Kreeft
From the Road! Sunday, Nov. 25, 2007
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