This weekend I decided to head down south, to spend some time with my parents, time to enjoy the sun and the heat which is seldom occurrent where I live, or at least not as nearly often as it happens where my parents live. Their house in the country was fairly large, with a room containing the piano of my childhood overlooking the garden. The garden was filled with trees, shrubs, flowerbeds; all containing abundant life and colour. The colour inspired me to write luxurious chords on the black beauty that is my parents upright piano.
I decided to wander down to the church where I used to be organist and held a short post of choirmaster, and before those, a chorister when I was even younger. Visiting these places of my childhood really struck at my very core, and provided me with a deep sense of strength. Upon entering the church and after having looked around at the intricate stained glass and shiny brass, I walked into the organ loft, took out the key from my keyring, and unlocked the doors. Opening the doors, I pressed the button to start the blower, pulled out a small selection of stops and played a chord.
The glorious and ground-shaking chords of the organ really reminded me of how much power can be held by the least powerful of people, hearing the ringing notes ringing around the church harked back to my memories of playing to packed Christmas services and hearing the united voices in song. When I left the church it was dark, but the music would not leave my head, so I went back to my parents house, cooked dinner, and picked up a book of the old bookcase in the hall. I settled into an armchair in the lounge with a cat on my lap and began to read.
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