Tuesday, August 26, 2008

The Symphony of St. Marys

A melody recalls a lost moment in time. A voice summons the complex nuances of emotions. The magnum opus of Nature serves as the accompaniment to our lives. Each separate space and place possesses a unique signature of sound and thus it is with St. Marys. Listen.
Just listen.
The tide turns, and with its indrawn breath the winds alter almost imperceptibly. The sighing through the live oaks is lowered to a soft whisper as the palmetto fronds pause in their chatter. It is the sound of an eternal rhythm.
In the moon-glow of a southern night a dog barks, and the evening chorus begins—then falls silent. We often wonder at these canine conversations: do they regale one another with tales of sun-basking, swims in the park, the antics of their humans? Or is it simply the “all’s-well” call throughout the town as another day draws to a close?
As with any symphony, one may listen to the totality or disseminate the parts. The kettle-drum of approaching thunder entwines about the alto notes of church bells that fall like soft prayers upon the streets and corners. The timpani of rain on a tin roof, the exhilarating woodwind cry of a hawk in full flight, the heartbreakingly lovely violin of high winds through ancient tree limbs, the gentle bells of boats in the harbor, the flutes of children at play, the oboes of slow, tranquil voices and quiet days: this is the music of Home.
At times St. Marys is a lullaby that soothes the soul and redeems the spirit. She can also be the clarion call of a
joyous brass band as festival throngs gather in the streets to celebrate our community. During the quiet dawn hours, the town is a sonata of infinite delicacy, while sunset is a
concerto of such mastery and grace as to humble us all.
There is a certain indefinable magic here in St. Marys that heightens the senses and opens the mind. You will find yourself tilting your head to better capture an elusive…something. It may be the splash of dolphins at play as they leap from the silvery reflection of a full moon. It may be the silent unfolding of a magnolia
blossom or the rustle of an armadillo in the palmetto
understory. Perhaps it’s even subtler and is but the
stretching of the world beneath a healing sun. One can almost believe that that which is assumed to be soundless, is not: the fall of azalea blossoms in February, the mist of jasmine in June, the fog that shrouds the river or the scent of an oncoming storm. Senses merge and transform in St. Marys, and that which is seen and felt is often heard.
“I can hear myself think”—a rare and priceless gift in these hectic times. Hear your thoughts, your dreams, your hopes, your heart. Hear color and emotion and aspirations and community. Hear the symphony of St. Marys. Listen. Just listen.