Music and me

American marches, a Welsh choir and dreaming of flight

Last week’s sun is now but a distant memory. The town of La Conner.

I’m Juliet Fay, an English woman in Skagit County, WA, USA, brought here in my fifties by love, writing about my explorations (inner and outer) in my little corner of the Pacific Northwest, on the tip of an island in the Salish Sea.

The damp cool weather moves me towards watching movies and cooking a sweet potato curry on this drizzly afternoon. Slowly I circle this edition in languorous loops, wanting and not wanting to play with the words I have drafted and tease something into balance. Is balance universally recognised? One person’s resonance may be another’s dissonance. Which brings me nicely to some interesting reader feedback.

Housekeeping

A paid subscriber let me know that the American spelling of despatches is dispatches which I didn’t know. He thought I had misspelled it and felt bad for me. For Americans, it is an error. But when he looked it up and realised it was the British spelling he decided it was cool and cultured. You are too kind! I’m not inclined to change it now as it feels an appropriate nod to my Englishness. Thank you for the heads up and the little exploration it triggered.

Gift subscriptions

I have changed a setting so you’ll likely be receiving the odd email offering you gift subscriptions to give away. I would massively appreciate you sending them on to anyone you think would enjoy Despatches from the Pacific Northwest. I have given gift subscriptions to publications I subscribe to but I recommend you check with people first to see if they are happy to engage with the Substack platform.

Observant readers may have noticed a musical theme. For paid subscribers this week’s edition explores my experience of music as performer and listener. I recommend you take out a paid subscription to read this edition and more than 90 posts in the archive.

Until next time

Juliet

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Wednesday

I woke to rain coming down, pitter patter on the plastic skylight in a repeated percussive riff. A clock chime drip - plop, plop - from an overflowing gutter took up the bass line. The air is sweet and moist again after the dehydrated days of an early May summer.

The garden is grateful for this bounty and so am I. A chance to retract, curl back into oneself and simply receive. I notice a long exhale as my body welcomes the pause.

My toe needs a rest after a savage stubbing several weeks ago. I keep thinking it’s fine, do my usual activities and discover its angry, red, swollen self looking accusingly at me when I peel off my socks. So I decided to rest the toe today. Foot up in the air. What could I do but read and write?

It’s been a busy 10 days, with three concert performances for me with the Shelter Bay Chorus directed by Lyle Forde and two performances for Paul with the Skagit Valley Chorale directed by Dr Yvette Burdick. It got me musing on my experiences of choirs over my lifetime and the role of singing and music.