"Deep", by Elisabeth Williamson: a view from another window

When something is precious to you, it's possible to lose your perspective on it. This makes the thing no less precious, of course, but you may not be sure whether its value is apparent to others. The view from your own window may be absolutely invisible to others, even if they're looking out the same window.

This blog is a precious act of love for me, for instance. Had I no commentary from others, I'd have no way to know whether it had value to anyone else. I'm fortunate in that some of you, my dears, are kind enough to write, to encourage, to question. I've even gotten phone calls: "I read your blog last night and had to call and tell you..." It's an interesting mix in this metier, because some of you are friends I see often and have loved for years, while others are connected only through the virtual atmosphere we share. Either way, I am comforted to know there are people listening, and people who take pleasure in my voice.

This is true when I sing. All the years with Judy and Tracy and Jo, all those years of love and learning with SPE...each moment is a memory to be savored, for there are few things as profoundly physical and joyful as singing close harmonies with your whole heart.
The MadriGals, as most of you know, is a simple source of practically giddy joy. What could be more fun than singing Christmas carols with trusted best friends of many years' standing, right into the ears of more trusted and beloved friends? It's more fun than I can begin to tell you. And you know this: you've been reading here about Sister Patricia (and that story's just BEGUN, my loves) and Miss Judy and Miss Tracy and Miss Jo, and in the incarnation of the MadriGals, Miss Lis.

So, Miss Lis. Since I was sneaking into the Trade Winds to hear Gamble Rogers, I've been listening to Lis sing. I remember telling Sister about her, about that voice, about the bluegrass, such a departure from the classical vocal technique she was teaching me. She said, "You will learn something from absolutely every musical experience. Listen! Sing! Learn!" And at varying distances over the years, I have listened and learned, even been blessed to sing with, and mostly LOVED Lis, and her music in all its settings and arrangments. If you read Ms. Moon's blog, you probably already have a sense of the marvel of Lis and Lon, and all their delicious, humble, irresistible orbit. And if you read either of our blogs you've been gently and affectionately harangued into listening to "Deep", a collection of original songs Lis wrote and finally released on New Year's Eve in the form of what the ears of love can only call a beautiful and breathtaking CD. We all loved it. More than half the people who read this blog can tell you that they watched it born, if only present for a split-second of the labor. The songs would appear gently in the regular appearances of The Driftwoods at Creekside Dinery, and you might think, "That's a pretty...wait a minute. What IS that?", only to find it was a new song Lis had written.

Until Creekside hosted an unforgettable CD release party, we dressed up and celebrated New Year's Eve on a true blue moon with a thousand of the people we loved best (Ms. and Mr. Moon came all the way from Lloyd, and countless others, countless miles) and we LOVED it. Ms. Moon has written eloquently of it, many of you have heard it, I hope you are downloading it now. My photos were all blurred and teary, though I did catch one especially demonstrative of the love and open arms with which Lis generally greets life, loved ones and the universe. Forgive, if you will, the terrible quality and look into the heart of it. Perhaps it will help you see how well and truly Darius has captured that heart in his review of Deep.

So now: the view from the window of Oliver di Place. An objective look, thoughtful and interestingly insightful. Are you reading Darius yet? Are you downloading the CD yet?