Fields of Gold; Fields of Silver

I never make promises lightly . . .

I swear to you in the days still left . . .

You'll remember me when the west wind moves  

Fields of Gold. Eva Cassidy. A perfect bridge between old and new.

"Fields Of Gold"

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
We'll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that I've broken
But I swear in the days still left
We'll walk in the fields of gold
We'll walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold

This song represents for me a time of reconciliation, California, a promise of an exquisitely sweet future, romance, a promise I made to my then-husband when he returned from five months away. I'm not going into specifics here, but we re-committed to our marriage – more importantly, to each other.

If you've followed my blog and writings, you know how deeply I connect to the wind and nature. So in 1996, Sting's “Fields of Gold” became an anthem, one of those songs that defines and represents a notch of time in our lives – a magic carpet of sorts that carries us away and sweeps us up in a swirl of emotions and memories, the impact far greater than lyrics and music alone.

Sting's version is wistful, warm, his honeyed, golden words reflect the sun and the fields. I felt safe and sheltered, yet simultaneously revealed and exposed to the sun when I listened to Sting sing “Fields of Gold.” His version represents the heat of youth, the rhythmic flames of sexual passion, the persistent driving beat, desire that is never quenched.

Moving ahead to 2012, I am getting to know someone new, and among the many pleasures we share is a love of music. He introduced me to Eva Cassidy's work. Her voice slips in and out and swims between the very cells of my DNA, caresses them, whispers to them, makes them bleed and then heals them. The wabi sabi effect is amazing. She breaks and then repairs my soul.

And today I discovered her version of “Fields of Gold.” 

I put off listening, recognizing this would forever change its meaning for me. Funny how the simplest acts are often the most difficult to initiate.

When I was ready, I took a deep breath and pushed the “play” icon.

Cassidy's rendition is powerful, rich, soulful, crystal clear as a frozen waterfall, pregnant with promise. Hers is platinum, silvered, a mirror held up to the future while still reflecting the past, bouncing between the two into infinity. 

The broken vows rebound like pinballs, clanging chrome bells, fracturing the mirrors. Jagged shards of shattered promises tinkle like wind chimes in a breeze; the past's frozen crust falls away. 

The flood rushes forward and carries in its wake the tender bud of a potential silver spring.~~GH

I never make promises lightly . . .

I swear to you in the days still left . . .

You'll remember me when the west wind moves  

Nature, Grace, Redemption

(In honor of the first day of Autumn. ~GHC)

West Virginia roads suggest dancing. There is an innate rhythm to the undulations formed by lanes carved to shadow waterways that gently curve down the mountains. A sensuous sway of Nature's hips; she is a Mountain Woman making her way down the path with an apron full of walnuts in Autumn.~~GHC

Nature, Grace, Redemption

Each morning, Sun's light darts through thick foliage, seeking his mountain woman. He issues a clarion call to awaken and join him in the forest. He watches over her throughout the day even when she feels alone. She is courted by both Sun and Wind. The jealous suitors vie for her affection in an eternal battle.

Sun soothes her spirit, warms her body, lights her way in the gloom. Sun breaks the dark grasp of Winter, heralds the promise of Spring. Sun beats her in Summer, smothers her with his passion, lashes her with his harsh rays. His heat coaxes her musky essence; it drifts on the breeze. Mountain Woman lies panting and sweating in a verdant valley, drained and spent when he leaves her. She cries out from her spirit to Wind to come and bring relief.

Rivulets of perspiration trace the curves of her countenance and she dreams of Wind's sweet touch. Sensing her scent in the zephyr, Wind joins Mountain Woman. He whispers against her cheek, smoothes her hair. He strokes her everywhere at once. The hairs on her arms stand up as he wraps around and over and under her, finding his way into tiny crevices that Sun never discovers. Mountain Woman shivers from the sensation. He brushes her nipples, causing them to reach for his touch. He obliges.

But Wind is as cruel a lover as Sun. In Winter, he causes her hair to lash her face. He chaps her skin, chills her to the bone. In Winter, she sometimes weeps for Sun, wondering if he will ever return. Wind leaves as suddenly as he arrives, without warning every time. He is capricious, unlike faithful Sun who soars across the sky each morning and stays until nightfall when he settles into the trees like a bird returning to its nest.

Mountain Woman has a third lover: Night. Night too is faithful but undemanding. She waits until Sun leaves, gracious and patient for her turn. Her gentle fingers soothe Mountain Woman's tired spirit and restore her soul. She pulls Mountain Woman to her bosom, murmurs into her ear to rest, sleep, renew, and refresh.

Sometimes Wind comes while Mountain Woman lies within Night's arms. He rails against the walls, his jealousy evident. He howls outside her window, impotent and incapable of forcing her to unlatch her door and allow him in. He warns of Night's deceit.

Glittering diamonds emphasize Night's dark beauty. She offers gifts to Mountain Woman: the Moon and Stars. Night's jewels are sempiternal but cold and distant. They sparkle with false brilliance. Their light is mere reflection; their lives forfeit long ago. Like Mountain Woman, they cannot be possessed.

Mountain Woman wakens and makes her way down the hillside to the River. River is her true Love. River fills her every crevice, gentle and insistent, patient, persistent. Thorough. River caresses and treasures everything Mountain Woman offers and nothing more. If she deigns to only dip a dainty foot in, River caresses it, worships it. When Mountain Woman chooses to disrobe away from the prying eyes of Sun, Wind, or Night, and offers herself entirely into River's embrace, River welcomes her. River always accepts, never judges. River extends an invitation but never presses. Steady yet never stagnant, faithful yet not fawning, loving without lusting, River is the keeper of Mountain Woman's heart.