“. . . Vainly we offer each ample oblation. . .” (Reginald Heber)

Each ample oblation

Each ample oblation

Creative non-fiction. That’s what I’d write if I were not self-absorbed. Knew more people and listened to their stories. Read more news—personal news. “UTD professor runs math tutoring program in low-income neighborhoods.” Write about Prof. Lee and his work and what makes him tick. An essay about the way his program has changed the life of one student.

Something interesting. Something important. The purpose of education. A creative piece about learning to do math.

But I can’t even write in complete sentences when I think about such topics.

Yesterday I had in mind to write a lovely creative non-fiction piece about the American traditional shape-note hymn, “Star in the East.” It’s from Southern Harmony of 1835. I have a facsimile copy of the 1859 edition of Southern Harmony, but by 1859 the hymn was set to a different tune.

The tune from the 1835 edition is in the Episcopal Hymnal 1982. The Episcopals, in their diligence to be authentic, used the earliest version rather than the one most 21st-century churches would (I think) be more comfortable with, the 1854 edition in four parts. I wanted the four-part version to record and post on Facebook.

Sorry. Who besides Charles Hiroshi Garrett wants to read musicological arcana?

I’ve had the tune running in my head since the Epiphany. I was exercising in the therapy pool that day singing Epiphany hymns to myself. That was one I thought of. Big mistake. I’ve been singing it for 10 days.

The next step, of course, (of course?) should have been to record the tune on my organ as an Epiphany post on Facebook. I don’t care about the Epiphany, but church observances as they come around every year give me a structure for my inner musical life. And a reason to post little ditties on Facebook.

I couldn’t find a transcription of the 4-part version of “Star of the East” from 1854, so I delayed. I didn’t want to bother writing it out myself or making myself play it from the shape-note open score (four different staves).

Yesterday I decided it’s time. Christmas and Epiphany and the star in the east and the Wise Men are long over. If Christmas can start before Halloween, can’t it as logically end after Valentine’s Day?

But now to the truth. I delayed until today because I couldn’t find my copy of Southern Harmony (that facsimile of the 1859 edition).

I was assuming my copy had the tune in 4 parts because that was the “improvement” of the 1859 edition—all tunes had four parts. What I didn’t realize was that those words had a different tune by that time.

I want a wife husband. Thanks to Judy Brady. I’ve stolen her idea before. It’s likely even in Texas that will soon be a possibility. In Judy Brady’s parlance, I want

. . . a wife husband who will keep my clothes clean, ironed, mended, replaced when need be, and who will see to it that my personal things are kept in their proper place so that I can find what I need the minute I need it.

This desire is not new in my senescence. I’ve always wanted a husband who could do those things. Because I can’t.

Keep track of my copy of Southern Harmony, for example.

I’ve been over this before, but it bears repeating. Not repeating, revising. The last time I wrote about not being able to find something—that is, living in disorganization and monumental disorder—I was only 67 years old. I had plenty of time left to get the clutter out of my life and begin to work in peace and order. Accomplish something.

Predictably, not much has changed—not much except the urgency. I’m 70. Statistically, living in Texas, I can expect to live 8 more years. If I want to improve those odds significantly, I need to move to Hawaii, or the District of Columbia.

It’s time. I’ve said it before.

I mean it now. I want to be rid of everything I own that won’t fit in my car. And then I want to move it all into a new tiny apartment and get rid of my car. That, of course is my plan in extremis. It’s not necessary. But I want to get closer and closer to that possibility.

Get rid of stuff.

Every morning while I’m making my coffee, this is what I see.
photoI have no need for those books (and the other hundreds in my apartment). Nor those containers of things—knives, kitchen utensils. The radio, fan, lamp. You say, “That’s useful stuff. You just need to get organized.”

No, it’s not. I don’t believe the common wisdom that clutter in our homes is analogous to or symbolic of clutter in our minds. And I don’t agree with Peter Walsh that we can’t be at peace in a cluttered home.

It’s not the clutter that prevents peace. It’s the ownership. I own this stuff. I could live in complete clutter and be at peace if I did not own the stuff.

Here I make a sharp at least 90-degee turn in logic and pretend I’m writing creative non-fiction.

First, a tiny bit of word history. According to the online etymology dictionary, “own” and “owe” come from the same root. I don’t pretend to be a philologist. But I see a connection. We “own” and “owe” at the same time. Everything we “own,” we “owe.” I don’t know to what or whom.

If we “owe” our stuff, then paying it off ought to give us some satisfaction, some peace, some sense of freedom—something.
Here’s my guess, however. We’re caught in a catch-22 of our own making. We own all this stuff, and we owe it. But we can’t even give it away. We’re too attached to it and we’ll think we’ve accomplished something by giving it away. We will clear our minds and souls. Because we think we will have done it, it won’t happen.

We need a whole new relationship with our things.

I don’t know what it is.

The funny old hymn says it. You don’t have to believe in the Baby Jesus or the Wise Men to see this.

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;
Vainly with gold we his favor secure;
Richer by far is the heart’s adoration;
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Vainly. We have to do it, but it’s in vain.

(Anglican) Bishop Reginald Heber (1783-1826)
1 Hail the blest morn, see the great Mediator,
Down from the regions of glory descend!
Shepherds, go worship the babe in the manger,
Lo, for his guard the bright angels attend.

2 Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining;
Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall;
Angels adore him, in slumbers reclining,
Wise men and shepherds before him do fall.

3 Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion,
Odors of Eden and offerings divine?
Gems from the mountain, and pearls from the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine?
4 Vainly we offer each ample oblation;

Vainly with gold we his favor secure;
Richer by far is the heart’s adoration;
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

5 Low at his feet we in humble prostration,
Lose all our sorrow and trouble and strife;
There we receive his divine consolation,
Flowing afresh from the fountain of life.

6 He is our friend in the midst of temptation,
Faithful supporter, whose love cannot fail;
Rock of our refuge, and hope of salvation,
Light to direct us through death’s gloomy vale.

7 Star of the morning, thy brightness, declining,
Shortly must fade when the sun doth arise:
Beaming refulgent, his glory eternal
Shines on the children of love in the skies.

It’s a conundrum.

Vainly with gifts would his favor secure

Vainly with gifts would his favor secure

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