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<p>The last few have been held in raging snowstorms, so we moved the night to a Saturday in hopes that if it snowed we'd at least not have everyone stuck in traffic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unfortunately we also were in competition with a couple of other concerts, corporate events, etc. Still, we managed to mostly fill the hall and raise some dough for the Food Bank.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was, as we always hope it will be, an evening of friends sharing music. We had celtic harpists, hammer dulcimer, a fiddler, a hurdy-gurdy, story tellers, singers and a Mummer's Play. How we pull that one off year after year with fresh material I don't know.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What made it for me was the courage of our dear friend Sue who is fighting cancer and has recently had hip replacement to repair tumour damage. She made it despite the pain, and we had a cot set up for her unobtrusively at the back so that she could lie down if she needed to. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Our quartet sang, we did an all a cappella set starting with the original German version of Lo How A Rose, sang the ancient Catalan song Riu, Riu, Chiu, went on to The Wren/The King a bit of English folklore (Starts with "Joy, health, love and peace be all here in this place..")</p>
<p>and ended with something from the Kipper Family (google them), a funny Twelfth Night song.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At any rate I am always asked to tell a story to introduce the night and I came up with this cobbled together bit that I drew on based on our experience last month in Waterton Lakes National Park:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A few weeks ago I stood in the middle of the busiest crossroads in Waterton. The only traffic I could see was a herd of mule deer taking its leisurely time crossing the road, debating whether the grass truly was greener over there or if life and foraging was better where they had moseyed on over from. Closer by a big horn sheep lazily ploughed through a pile of drifted leaves, nosing for some as yet undiscovered delicacy. It seemed the perfect picture postcard moment, all except for the weather.</span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Above me and all through the mountain gap that nestles the Waterton Lakes the wind throated its disdain. The Waterton wind is all pervasive, <span style="color:#333333;">all powerful, all encompassing. You hear it in the waves rolling on the beach like a squadron of fighter jets. You feel it in the booming echoes tossed back and forth in the canyons or in the roar of it being caught up angrily in the branches of the resisting trees, hissing like a pit of vipers through the pines and whipping leaves into tornados of compost skittering down the lanes. But where I stood, through some momentary lapse on the part of the wind, I am sheltered for a spell. Amidst all the tumult it was strangely peaceful.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">It was Remembrance Day weekend and we had the town to ourselves. Buildings are boarded up and shuttered for the season. Human residents have fled winter’s anticipated onslaught, seeking warmer or more protected climes. The park gates are unattended, even the RCMP office is closed. </span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I stood on the corner of Waterton and Vimy avenues in that fragile moment between autumn and winter. Waiting. I can’t quite tell you what I was waiting for, but it seemed like the only thing to do with that moment of calm in the gale. </span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">It was, however, a magical moment. I stood on the bridge between here and there, in the midst of a mountainous gap, on the cusp of something that seemed momentous, waiting.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Isn’t that the case with every moment though? Isn’t every moment on the verge of something momentous or… not? Aren’t we always somewhere on that bridge between then, now, and what’s to come? </span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s easy in places like Waterton to have the time and space to ponder the dance of the seasons and the paths of our own lives. It’s sometimes easy at this time of year to do the same. We mark the passing of the year with resolutions and celebrations, we look back with friends and family, and we look forward with hope, mixed perhaps with some trepidation to what is to come. But our time for reflection, celebration, contemplation and peace is often caught in brief snatches amidst the whirlwind bustle of the season.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Christmas is a much anticipated season, laden with expectations. It is one of the mysteries of being human; a mystery of our perception of time, that 90% of our joy in an event is caught up in its anticipation. (You should note that I believe that 87% of statistics are made up on the spot 19 times out of 20.) But if you think that I exaggerate, think back on your childhood or on your memories of your own children or any children. Thank back to kids “counting the sleeps” waiting so impatiently until Santa came</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">So what am I saying? Am I suggesting that we embrace that New Age mantra of mindfulness and presence, living in and for the moment? No, or not quite.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">If I could I would bring you all back with me to Waterton for that one November moment, where time for me stood still between now and then, between autumn and winter, between the cares of yesterday and the hopes for tomorrow, or was it the hopes of yesterday and the cares of tomorrow? I would take you back with me to be in that moment and to sense the peace in the midst of those hurricane winds.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Tonight we hope to offer you a space akin to that of the Waterton crossroads in November. We wish to provide a place for us to celebrate tradition, a place to sense some anticipation for the season, a moment to rest in that midst of that maelstrom of things to do and places to be. That hurricane wind is blowing out there, but here let’s be shielded from it, if only for a moment.</span></span></span></p>
<p><br><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">We call this space “The Other Sounds of Christmas”, and this is how it begins. </span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unfortunately we also were in competition with a couple of other concerts, corporate events, etc. Still, we managed to mostly fill the hall and raise some dough for the Food Bank.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was, as we always hope it will be, an evening of friends sharing music. We had celtic harpists, hammer dulcimer, a fiddler, a hurdy-gurdy, story tellers, singers and a Mummer's Play. How we pull that one off year after year with fresh material I don't know.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What made it for me was the courage of our dear friend Sue who is fighting cancer and has recently had hip replacement to repair tumour damage. She made it despite the pain, and we had a cot set up for her unobtrusively at the back so that she could lie down if she needed to. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Our quartet sang, we did an all a cappella set starting with the original German version of Lo How A Rose, sang the ancient Catalan song Riu, Riu, Chiu, went on to The Wren/The King a bit of English folklore (Starts with "Joy, health, love and peace be all here in this place..")</p>
<p>and ended with something from the Kipper Family (google them), a funny Twelfth Night song.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At any rate I am always asked to tell a story to introduce the night and I came up with this cobbled together bit that I drew on based on our experience last month in Waterton Lakes National Park:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A few weeks ago I stood in the middle of the busiest crossroads in Waterton. The only traffic I could see was a herd of mule deer taking its leisurely time crossing the road, debating whether the grass truly was greener over there or if life and foraging was better where they had moseyed on over from. Closer by a big horn sheep lazily ploughed through a pile of drifted leaves, nosing for some as yet undiscovered delicacy. It seemed the perfect picture postcard moment, all except for the weather.</span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Above me and all through the mountain gap that nestles the Waterton Lakes the wind throated its disdain. The Waterton wind is all pervasive, <span style="color:#333333;">all powerful, all encompassing. You hear it in the waves rolling on the beach like a squadron of fighter jets. You feel it in the booming echoes tossed back and forth in the canyons or in the roar of it being caught up angrily in the branches of the resisting trees, hissing like a pit of vipers through the pines and whipping leaves into tornados of compost skittering down the lanes. But where I stood, through some momentary lapse on the part of the wind, I am sheltered for a spell. Amidst all the tumult it was strangely peaceful.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">It was Remembrance Day weekend and we had the town to ourselves. Buildings are boarded up and shuttered for the season. Human residents have fled winter’s anticipated onslaught, seeking warmer or more protected climes. The park gates are unattended, even the RCMP office is closed. </span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I stood on the corner of Waterton and Vimy avenues in that fragile moment between autumn and winter. Waiting. I can’t quite tell you what I was waiting for, but it seemed like the only thing to do with that moment of calm in the gale. </span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">It was, however, a magical moment. I stood on the bridge between here and there, in the midst of a mountainous gap, on the cusp of something that seemed momentous, waiting.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Isn’t that the case with every moment though? Isn’t every moment on the verge of something momentous or… not? Aren’t we always somewhere on that bridge between then, now, and what’s to come? </span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s easy in places like Waterton to have the time and space to ponder the dance of the seasons and the paths of our own lives. It’s sometimes easy at this time of year to do the same. We mark the passing of the year with resolutions and celebrations, we look back with friends and family, and we look forward with hope, mixed perhaps with some trepidation to what is to come. But our time for reflection, celebration, contemplation and peace is often caught in brief snatches amidst the whirlwind bustle of the season.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Christmas is a much anticipated season, laden with expectations. It is one of the mysteries of being human; a mystery of our perception of time, that 90% of our joy in an event is caught up in its anticipation. (You should note that I believe that 87% of statistics are made up on the spot 19 times out of 20.) But if you think that I exaggerate, think back on your childhood or on your memories of your own children or any children. Thank back to kids “counting the sleeps” waiting so impatiently until Santa came</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">So what am I saying? Am I suggesting that we embrace that New Age mantra of mindfulness and presence, living in and for the moment? No, or not quite.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">If I could I would bring you all back with me to Waterton for that one November moment, where time for me stood still between now and then, between autumn and winter, between the cares of yesterday and the hopes for tomorrow, or was it the hopes of yesterday and the cares of tomorrow? I would take you back with me to be in that moment and to sense the peace in the midst of those hurricane winds.</span></span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Tonight we hope to offer you a space akin to that of the Waterton crossroads in November. We wish to provide a place for us to celebrate tradition, a place to sense some anticipation for the season, a moment to rest in that midst of that maelstrom of things to do and places to be. That hurricane wind is blowing out there, but here let’s be shielded from it, if only for a moment.</span></span></span></p>
<p><br><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="color:#333333;"><span style="font-family:arial;">We call this space “The Other Sounds of Christmas”, and this is how it begins. </span></span></span></p>
