The Sweet Bayberry Bush

The north wind that did blow last night
And cause the waves to crash
As the sun was setting on the sea of blue
Is the same wind that did waft the scent
Of the sweet bayberry bush
To make me think so tenderly of you

Is this all that's left of me
A lone man staring out to sea?
Is this all you'll ever be
The wind that sails my heart?

The sunlight like your golden hair
Through clouds of grey did fall
The salt swell like your silver tears did roll
And the seabirds' cries upon the wind
Like lovely laughter's call
Did echo in the darkness in my soul

The bright stars that so soon appear
When stormy clouds have gone
They're all that's left to guide me dear
Yet still I must sail on...

But if ever I should gaze upon
Your darling cheeks a-flush
If ever you should chance to smile at me
Or if I should smell your perfume
Like the sweet bayberry bush
I never again would go back out to sea

Is this all that's left of me
A lone man staring out to sea?
Is this all you'll ever be
The wind that sails my heart?

(Repeat first verse)

The bayberry bushes along the Northumberland Shore in Pictou County, Nova Scotia inspired this sailor's song. The word "sweet" sure shows up in my lyrics a lot. I wonder why that is?

Inquiry into infinity

Maybe it's the influence of the salt fog of the North Mountain, or the slow undulating chug across the Bay of Fundy on the Digby Ferry, or just the hypnotic lure of the waves pounding the wharves and jetties all along the Nova Scotia shore... but lately I've been thinking a lot about music as a voyage out into an unknown ocean.

I'm no master and commander when it comes to music. As a guitar player and singer, I've had to work hard just to become an able seaman, to handle the challenges of my small craft. True, I've always heard and made melodies easily, as if they were so many fish in the sea, ready for netting. I've always had the ability to rig my songs with sturdy rhymes, to play out story lines to ever greater depth. These small talents kept me sailing, I suppose, even when the winds were against me, when my fingers refused to hold the cursed strings, when my voice in the storm was as rough as a crow's and lost against the sky.

But even if I wasn't a natural adept, I always heard the call of music, as boys who lived in seaside towns must have heard the call of the sea. I remember the way my mother's Odetta records revealed dark secrets in the whitewashed maps of history. I remember how the holiness in Oh Holy Night took wing on that glorious melody, soaring and swooping into sacred skies like an albatross, whatever an albatross might have been. I remember the minor tones in We Three Kings catching the bitter perfume of myrrh, and knowing that this was some kind of solemn and dark miracle, that Jesus died lost and alone as a shipwrecked sailor every time that song was sung.

Music, like the ocean, is infinite - not just in its vastness, but in its depth and complexity. No one can know all the potential combinations of melody, harmony, accompaniment, rhythm, lyrics, story, arrangement, any more than a sailor can know all the potential combinations of tide, of wind, of waves, of weather, geography, astronomy... And suppose a sailor masters his craft, and sets himself a course into the unknown, knowing that all waters are one and that by the grace of good winds he may be carried home again one day. When the sailor comes back once more to familiar waters, what does he find? That everything familiar has changed, and that the waters still beckon him elsewhere and everywhere.

It's a voyage that deepens with every passing moment. It's fierce pursuit of the white whale inside the self. It's a commitment to experience sublimity, to move with courage through darkness and solitude and with grace through sunshine and fair waters. It is a journey that begins with a small child's innocent inquiry into infinity: a wee boat set afloat for fun and folly. As the waters deepen and land slips farther and farther away, the destination loses all meaning, and there is only the journey.

Gazing over side into the impenetrable fog of tomorrow, I can only wonder: does a journey without destination ever end?

I got my wood in...

Nine years ago I left the North Mountain partly because I didn't have enough wood to get through the toughest winter of my life.

Better late than never. My buddy Zach and I did a couple of days work at the cabin last week and this fine woodpile is the result.

No, I'm not staying the winter. But it's good to know I could.

Nova Scotia tour highlights

-a passenger in the "lost luggage" line at the Halifax airport buying Timbits for everyone
-sorry, we don't have a compact car - would you like a Jeep Cherokee at the same price? (Yes.)
-swapping stories with a Pearson College student who was born when I was a student there
-meeting up with an old friend's sister at the Laughing Whale in Lunenburg
-playing acoustically to fans & friends in Lunenburg filling the Fish Factory bar
-collecting on all the consignment CDs that sold in various places over the past year -
-meeting up with Darren Arsenault, who helped with the live recording last summer
-staying in the delightful "Hospitality Suite" in the Union Street Cafe
-they know how to party in Berwick...
-the folks at the Fundy View fish & chips shop and campground framed my publicity photo
-confirming that squirrels did not ruin my cabin over the past year
-rockin' out at the Evergreen
-the Library Pub in Wolfville
-picking up two hitchhikers who work with Brinkman, the company I used to plant trees for
-the early evening sun from Cape D'or
-playing for 4 hours solid at the Beach Cafe
-reading Joshua Slocum's story of his solo sailing journey around the world
-coming home lighter than I was when I left

Sing, people!

It's a common thing for people to tell musicians "I wish I could sing." Recently there's been some discussion in the folk community about this sad phenomenon, and I thought I'd share my two cents worth on the topic.

I've travelled around quite a bit and one thing I've noticed is that cultural environment largely determines musicality in a given society.

Three examples spring to mind.

1. I was once plunking away at a piano in the Nova Scotian home of a girlfriend of mine. Her dad came in and I sheepishly said, "Oh, sorry, that must sound awful. I haven't played since I was a kid." He said, "Boy, you'll never hear anybody complain about you playing a musical instrument in this house."

2. I was up north planting trees and a Native guy who had heard me play guitar asked if I wanted to hear some of his music. He put a tape in the stereo of my truck and the spine-tingling sounds of a drum and song performance came wafting out. This great big tough guy said "hear that really high, weird wailing there? That's me. In our music anything that comes to you to sing is okay. That's how I sing. You could sing like you do and it would be okay."

3. I was in Fiji for three weeks and literally didn't meet anyone who could not sing, play the guitar or ukulele, or dance. Most could do all of the above. The Fijians sang at every possible occasion; I once saw an entire village gather round to sing a farewell song to 4 kayakers whom they had known for about 4 hours. It was like that everywhere, all the time. Music was as much a part of life as the air they breathed, and not to be musical would have been tantamount to not breathing.

My point is that in all of these circumstances, music itself is the gift. One's own ability to carry a tune or play an instrument might vary, but that doesn't matter: the main thing is that the gift is indulged and enjoyed by all- just like the air.

On a slightly tangential note: I'd like to hear from any anthropologically-minded person which came first: music, or language? I suspect the former, or that at the beginning, they were the same thing.

Sing, people. When I hear the usual "I can't sing" line from an audience member, my response is always the same: If I can do it, anyone can.