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Like a centipede, each foot laced inside steel-toes-work boots, so drags the remaining hours before the onset of a New Year. Everyone feels it, whether partying in glitzy bars, chanting in monasteries, setting off fireworks, or tossing atop rumpled sheets.

Before us looms the mystery of spent time with its missed opportunities and moral failures. Offsetting this sorry state, however, yawns future change with its disequilibrium or pain, either consciously embraced or forced upon us.

For those with faith, it’s about glimpsing the Unseen Hand shaping our psyches, moving us toward the actualization of our birthright. Admittedly, our sojourn in this life is brief as compared with multiple civilizations before us. History and literature and the arts are replete with stories of how others have done their lives, not without suffering.

Such deep thoughts, of necessity, plunge us within our sacred depths; therein, we learn to listen for direction, to seek counsel when perplexed, and to obey with the heart as we tread into the tomorrows of our lives.

We are not alone and never have been.

 

 

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Put together a man with humble spirit, who jettisoned decades of brilliant compositions and endured eight years of fitful starts until birthing his distinct voice, tintinnabuli (Latin for “little bells”)—and you will encounter the Estonian genius of Arov Part (1935).

A chance listening of his Miserere (1992) that was performed by the Radio Choir of Latvia and the Los Angeles Philharmonic poured balm upon my painful convalesence that was caused by last July’s accident. It also afforded me a lens through which to view the fractured world around us, tottering upon extinction.

This forty-six minute piece conjoins the Hebrew Psalm 51 with the Latin hymn, Dies irae, the Medieval Sequence found in the Roman Catholic Mass for the Dead. Part’s intimacy with the living Word of God shimmers within the silent pauses that punctuate this work and seep into the marrow of our bones. Such is manifested through the interplay of the five soloists and chorus and the accompanying horns, woodwinds, percussion, organ, and two electric guitars. The overall effect is a new texture of the phenomenon of mercy that wraps us within wordlessness. We are made whole.

Part’s Miserere can be experienced on YouTube.

 

Put together a man with humble spirit, who jettisoned decades of brilliant compositions and endured eight years of fitful starts until birthing his distinct voice, tintinnabuli (Latin for “little bells”)—and you will encounter the Estonian genius of Arov Part (1935).

A chance listening of his Miserere (1992) that was performed by the Radio Choir of Latvia and the Los Angeles Philharmonic poured balm upon my painful convalescence that was caused by last July’s accident. It also afforded me a lens through which to view the fractured world around us, tottering upon extinction.

This forty-six minute piece conjoins the Hebrew Psalm 51 with the Latin hymn, Dies irae, the Medieval Sequence found in the Roman Catholic Mass for the Dead. Part’s intimacy with the living Word of God shimmers within the silent pauses that punctuate this work and seep into the marrow of our bones. Such is manifested through the interplay of the five soloists and chorus and the accompanying horns, woodwinds, percussion, organ, and two electric guitars. The overall effect is a new texture of the phenomenon of mercy that wraps us within wordlessness. We are made whole.

Part’s Miserere can be experienced on YouTube.

 

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