For a while I have been thinking about how when I listen to music I often “hear” stories told, not in the lyrics but in the tune itself. In its mood and “feel”. Stories so vivid I feel as if I could simply pick them up and start writing them out. I’ve often felt the urge to. Felt almost compelled to seize the images that form in my mind and keep repeating them to myself until they are strung on a thread like beads… ready to be worn, admired and cherished.
And yet, I have never done this. Never acted on this urge. I’ve always wondered if others see and hear the same things I do… or whether the stories are different for everyone. It would make sense, I guess, wouldn’t it? But that almost just makes it all the more intriguing to listen, doesn’t it?
So, I’ve decided … that while I am generally taking break from writing at the moment I would make myself take some time out and listen to stories told by music now and then, and that when I do… I’d write down what I hear. If nothing else, then simply to see if the same piece of music holds more than one story.
I’ll post YouTube links to the music I choose when I add the stories I find. Feel free to add your own tales along the way if you wish. I’d love to hear… after all, who doesn’t love a good story?
The Story Told by…
“Celebration” by Secret Garden
I see her standing on the ridge just beyond the edge of town, with the others gathering behind her. A young woman with fiery red hair, falling loosely over her shoulders and a blue cape rippling in the lazy evening breeze. Her hand is clutched around an object hanging in a leather string about her neck, a silver talisman…. A bird of some sort, I think.
They stare towards the sea without speaking. Open faces watching the golden horizon, worn and tired from the day that has almost passed. I count at least twelve… maybe fifteen, and more keep coming to join them… aching backs straightened, hands raised to furrowed brows against the setting sun. At last, two children break ranks and tumble down the slope with their dog barking excitedly as it takes up the chase. An old man leaning on his walking stick, lowers his gaze and wipes wetness from the eyes. A woman by his side squeezes his arm gently and does nothing to hide her own misty stare.
Finally, they break their silent vigil and begin moving through the unshorn grain, down the slope towards the beach. It is little more than silhouettes calling to them from the water. Contours that any of them would know anywhere from the stories and impressions drawn by the fire during those long evenings that would come to an end tonight.
The ships have come home.
They find each other on the sand beneath the new Moon rising, and dance by its pale light. The young woman in the arms of a man at least a foot taller than she, their faces tucked closely together as if they were whispering secrets to one another. A boy of eight hollers at the others from atop his father’s shoulders and giggles with elation, and all around sound the voices of people who have much too much to share to contain it.
The months of worries and separation mean nothing now. The long lonely nights and tiresome days filled with empty horizons are distant memories in these moments now. The ships have come home.
The ships have come home.