Nothing more

Listening to pianist Diana Krall perform and talk about songs on her husband's TV show made me want to try my hand at writing lyrics in the elegant, brilliant style of Gershwin, Rodgers & Hart, Cole Porter -- what's now called "The American Songbook."  It's  fiendishly difficult to do well, sort of like trying to juggle flaming chainsaws and kittens. No kittens were harmed in the writing of these lyrics.



Nothing More
Lyrics by A. Lindley, 2011

It was nothing more than infatuation--
Nothing more than a fling--
Nothing more than a jolt like a flower
Bursting through snow in the spring.
It was nothing more than a whirl of romance--
Nothing more than a spin--
Nothing more than a game where you laugh
And cash in your chips when you win.
 

So why do I stand

With my phone
In my hand
Outside your door in the rain?
Why does my heart
Lacking you
Fall apart
And love you still more through the pain?
 

It was nothing more than a racing heartbeat--

Nothing more than a spree.
Nothing more than a silly idea
You might be as happy as me.
Nothing more than a boy meets a girl--
Nothing  you could call new.
Nothing more than a boy and a girl
Making a world for just two.
 

There’s nothing left of infatuation,

Nothing you want from me now.
Nothing to do but speak my last piece
And exit the stage with a bow.
I’ve got no more than a heart that adores you--
Just that, nothing more, I confess.
Nothing more than a wish to live for you--
I’ve got nothing more, nothing less.

Casual Friday for Cole Porter

Quiet in the Librarian

Quiet in the Librarian: Developing a Spirit-centered approach to service

For my first few years as a librarian, I felt richly rewarded, a shining star of helpfulness. In a nutshell, I get paid to give people advice when they ask me for help, and then they thank me. Smart! Altruistic! Serving the public! What’s not to love? As my younger brother said when I first got the job, “Well, Anne, you do love to tell people what to do” .... Read this piece at Busted Halo



Busted Halo.com



Before I knew my name

Before I knew my name, my soul was touched by God.
Before my tongue had words, my soul was touched by God.
Before I drew a breath, before I had a face,
Before I nestled in my mother's blood,
My soul was touched by God.
Before my parents clasped their hands,
Before their parents suckled milk,
My soul was touched by God.
Before the rain and ground conjoined,
Before the moon could tend the tides,
Before the sea and land were struck,
Before divine light split the dark, my soul was touched by God.
Oh, my soul        forgive me for the times I do not know you.
For you have been faithful, steadfast       more enduring
Than time itself.

Photo by Mike Sandells

Forever Love

This week I'm sharing English words I wrote to go with a traditional Celtic song called Citi na gCumann. I'm working on a project to turn this into a record with a wonderful vocalist Shannon Lambert-Ryan, amazing guitarist Rob Messore and wizard of the recording studio Pierce Campbell supervising with aplomb.

I suggest playing this Altan video to hear the tune at the same time as you are following along reading my new lyrics. 

Oh -- please note -- I'm not going to share it with my parents (married 52 years) until the CD is recorded, so please don't mention it to them! ;-)



"Forever Love"
Tune: Citi na gCumann (trad)
English lyrics: Anne Lindley


When I was young and you were young
And love was green and new
We loved to say “forever, Love,”
“Forever, I’ll love you.”
And when we lay so close entwined
Our breath would flow as one
We’d say “This love of ours will last
As long as shines the sun.”
 
Now frost hangs on the barren boughs
The trees have lost their green
And I still have my own true love
In winter as in spring.
So let me kiss you now, my dear,
And treasure every day --
Love grows more dear each passing year
For time holds us in sway.
 
When I was young and you were young
And love was green and new
We loved to say “forever, Love,”
“Forever, I’ll love you.”
Forever is not ours to give,
And yet you may be sure
As I have breath, I’ll love full-strong
My love, my life is yours. 

Jean Gaumy / Magnum Photos

The Hushing Angel

From Walden: …If I repent of anything, it is very likely to be my good behavior. What demon possessed me that I behaved so well?



Photo by Sonja Rainey



Sometimes we picture our good and bad impulses as an angel on one shoulder and a demon on the other. I think we are not leery enough of a third voice, a voice that is burrowed so deep in our brains that we may mistake it for our own conscience. It is an authoritative voice, dressed up as an angel, telling us to be “good” by placing the wishes and needs of everyone above our own. This voice tells us to be a good girl, take up less space, don’t complain, need less, give more.

This is not the angel that stood with Martin Luther and Sojourner Truth and urged them to speak out. This false angel keeps us from speaking out. It is the hushing angel. The hushing angel tells us that we should take the burnt toast.

The hushing angel is heavy. The hushing angel presses down on us so that our brows are furrowed and our lips are tight. The hushing angel tells us we should carry more, do more, lift more. The hushing angel tells us to use our vacation time to pick a nursing home for our mother because our brother “just can’t cope with this.” The hushing angel tempts us to buy best-sellers for the library shelves because the town has slashed the book budget. The hushing angel pushes us out of bed early in the morning to wipe the kitchen counters before the housecleaner arrives.

The hushing angel drapes around our neck a golden necklace inscribed on every link with the motto, “I matter because I make others happy.” And the links of chain are so massive and so many that our heads bow down under the weight. No wonder we fret that the kitchen floor is dirty; we can’t look up to see out the window.

The hushing angel has us harnessed to an infernal machine for which we are the source of energy. Every breath lifts a lever, every step pulls a chain to make something happen for someone else. We’re a horse in harness, we’re a prisoner on a treadmill. And the reward, the payoff for all the work, is just this: you get to keep doing it.

This is the horrible secret of the hushing angel. If you live as though your goodness, your value comes from serving others with no regard for your own well-being, then the reward you get in exchange for all your effort is continuing to live – to serve others. “You are earning your spot on earth,” the hushing angel tells us. “You are paying rent on your right to breathe. If you jump off the treadmill, throw off the golden chain of obligation, then – why should the rest of us let you go on?”

Ballad of a Bad Girl

Photo by Dorothea Lange,
1939, Yakima Valley, WA.

These are lyrics I've written for a song that takes a folksong premise and gives it a jolt. No melody yet. Anyone care to try?

My sister’s name was Jezebel.

I never understood--

Folks call her a bad bad girl

She’s just misunderstood.

Her hair was black and glinted blue,

Like sunlight on a starling.

She’d go with anyone they said,

No-one called her darling.

My sister’s name was Jezebel,

That’s what Daddy named her.

I was younger by a year,

Helpless while he shamed her.

While Daddy messed with Jezebel

Ma looked the other way.

I knew we had to grow up fast

And make the bastard pay.

One day he came home stumbling drunk

As Ma went into town.

She said, “You keep that fool inside--

He’ll fall in the creek and drown.”

Well, girls are strong when times are tough--

We did what needed doing.

All alone when Ma came home,

Two girls and coffee brewing.

My sister’s name is Jessica--

She changed it ‘cause she could.

The town calls us those bad, bad girls.

We’re just misunderstood.

Don't go too far

When my husband and I began to get to know each other, I liked him a lot and he liked me a lot, right away. When I thought about the possibility of dating Robert it seemed like two things were clear to me. The first was the sensible observation that a man only recently separated from his first wife, paying tuition bills for his kids in college, would not be what most people would consider a good romantic match for me, not long out of college myself.

The second thing that seemed clear to me, if intoxicated bedazzlement can be considered clear at all, was that it was amazing that this funny, smart and attentive man with kind grey-green eyes wanted to spend time with me, a rather shy perfectionist with spasmodic ambitions to be a writer.

The sensible insight-- that Robert was likely in a classic midlife crisis, and that he was no doubt entranced by my shiny 28-year old hair and my great 28-year old legs -- that insight was a powerful damper on the dream-about-him-all-day daze I felt I could easily slide into. "Don't go too far with this," I told myself. "Getting to know Robert is a life lesson, an experiment. Don't feel too much, don't go too far."

Time went on. We kept talking and doing stuff together. We wrote funny postcards, made mixtapes of our favorite songs, and went cycling on country roads. Other men had made me feel giddy and twirly, as if I'd gotten a new dress. Robert made me feel as though we had discovered a mysterious empty house with our names on the mailbox, and the many rooms inside were ours to explore together. By the time I introduced him to my family, I began to think that my two insights were exactly backwards.

Yes, Robert had a history, but he understood his past and wasn't haunted by it. Despite his bumpy history, he was a great catch, precisely because his deeply rooted good qualities had remained intact and he wanted to share what was inside of him.

The second insight, that it was amazing that he was attracted to me, was plain silly. He loves thoughtful, kind, funny people in general, and he loves this thoughtful, kind, funny woman most of all. That's really who I am and he has known that from day one, from the bottom of his heart. In the seventeen years we've been married, I've been loving him back with just as much fervor and realism.

We lie in bed at night and I feel so fortunate for these years, knowing everything about each other and thinking the best of each other all at once. We lie in bed and I feel fortunate. "Don't go too far," I think. "This is just right. I want to stay close to you. Don't go too far."