Singing For My Supper

There’s a saying, usually attributed to Australian legends, that the world was sung into being. I’ve always liked that concept. Words and names have power, even if people these days don’t like to admit it; and when spun into song there’s a resonance that magnifies their power. I’m a musician myself, so you’d expect it to appeal anyway.

That whole belief in there being nothing, and then words and tunes and song spinning substance out of the void has a reflection in mainstream Western beliefs of course in the far more authoritarian Logos – The Word which was in the Beginning.

It’s always interested me that Western civilisation now cherishes this Command as the basis of its existence. The world, the churches would tell you, comes from an act of will, telling the void and everything produced from it what it is, and how it should behave.

I always got the, admittedly woolly, impression that the Dreamtime legends were of a more cooperative effort and approach. I will probably draw the ire of those more educated than I who will tell me I am entirely wrong on both counts.

My response to them is a firm two fingers on my fretboard while I tune up. I know in my heart which approach – command or uplift – brings more magic into my world. My evening may be hard work, but I know that when I hit the road again I will always find someone or somewhere that will welcome song more than demands to be heard.

The rains may fall, and the road may wind, but I’ll take my way of bringing new happiness into the world wherever I end up, and however I get there. Sure feels like the magic of creation to me.