Goose Song

The geese sound plaintiff to me this year, sorrowful.
Soulful.
They don’t change, of course, singing as they follow their instinctive migratory map.
They are permanently proud, peaceful, strong.
Enduring.
It’s me who hears them as sad, me who is heart-heavy.
CBC Radio talked recently about the power of sadness in music. By listening, and appreciating how well the composer and performers express that sadness, we communally transform that sadness into joy. Listening to Beethoven, Bach, Vivaldi, it’s ecstasy I feel, the true meaning of the word: a stepping outside of the self. A deep connection. The joy inside, through, because of the sadness.
As with geese.
Their sound weaves my life together, a seasonal recurrence. A musical movement.
I relish hearing them every time, every year.
They are my marker: another summer gone, another year lived, time told in honks.
Who am I this time?
Who was I last?
Every year I have this revelation, and am newly surprised: I am a deeper version of me. Like settling into an old coat, I am surprised I still fit, I am still comfortable.
The geese are mournful to me this year, their sound laden.
I don’t know why.
But that sad sound brings me joy, joy in the hearing of it.
And I do know that.

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2 comments so far

  1. allison on

    You mean “sad songs say so much”? Sorry, sorry. You’re such a beautiful writer.

  2. Moosilaneous on

    Kind of like….
    when you hear, and have to sing along to: “In the Living Years” by Mike and the Mechanics.
    (Sing it with me: Every generation … blames the one beforrrrrre….)

    Sad, SAD song – but feeling that sadness is a glorious release. And recognition of the resonance, the familiarity of the sensation is a reassurance in itself.

    (reference to, and reminder of, the song stolen from http://blogs.babble.com/babble-voices/doug-french-the-turbid-spume/2011/09/11/lachrymose-definitely/
    Worth a read.)

    But that recognition of these same feelings every year always seem to spark the same synapses, so that the turning of the seasons forces reflection on where we were, where we are; where we imagined we would and where we want to be.

    But for some reason, the change from summer to fall always seems more poignant than any other. Is it the associated changes in our activities, the long focus on a new school year in September, or what?


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