Rumi and the Flute

The poet Rumi in the Mathnawi, I'm told, talks about music that comes from the pain of separation. The body of the flute, for example, is cut from a reed that grows from the ground but reaches for the sky, then has holes burned into it that allow it to make a sound. Seven sound-holes represent the eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. Instrument as body, body as instrument.

The choir director Marlene talked on Sunday morning about how much she loves the flute. Her flute teacher at Luther University is very ill and losing his memory. She described their student-teacher relationship back in high school when she had the kind of personal issues that kids in high school have. They have stayed in touch over the years, and now there is a sad new chapter with his declining health. This experience is burning holes in her that she hopes will open up new ways of seeing herself and making music.

She brought out some of the flutes in her collection to show the kids in church some of the materials used by different cultures to make flutes. There was a Native American flute (wood), a Japanese shakuhachi (bamboo), a fife (silver), an Indian flute (bamboo), and a recorder (plastic). Each has a distinctive sound, meaning, and function for the people who play it.

The mystic Hildegard of Bingen wrote the words to Hymn #27, "I Am That Great and Fiery Force," which closed the service. I turned to my friend Dick standing next to me and said, "That was quite amazing." He said, "Remarkable!" and we went our separate ways. I told Marlene her sermon was absolutely beautiful, then I went outside and took a walk at Alumni Creek while that simple tune of Hymn 27 repeated itself over and over in my head. I can't remember it now, but each verse had four lines, and it reminded me of the blues.

The daughter Helga placed the flat stone inscribed with the name of her cat on the little mounded spot in the back corner of the back yard on Saturday. Then she had a rough moment as it all came down to her. She has had Gus for two-thirds of her life, and now that chapter is over.

That day her aunt JoJo and cousin Bubba went back to Hotlanta after a delightful Thanksgiving visit with us in Central Swingstate. The next day, I drove Helga and her friend SaRea back to Cuyahogaville for their last two weeks of fall semester. They've done this trip many times now, so it's a familiar drill. Helga had a lot of work to do, so I didn't stick around (see Randomness Rules).

Now I'm struggling to tie together all those seemingly related fragments, armed with the detachment of looking back four days later. It's not a real strong common thread: a bunch of sweet moments pass, leaving a hard memory. This isn't meant to be a treatise, just an attempt at closure. Maybe I should sing it or drum it or play it, instead of trying to write it (see On verbocentrism), because Rumi I'm not. Wanted: a different instrument.