Sept. 10 -- One of the simplest miracles of music is changing the voicings of chords -- here you have a root note, the other notes stacked above, and by moving the root to the top or the other notes around, you have exactly the same chord, but with a completely different sound. Though I have heard it a thousand million times, it is still a miracle to me: how does music do that? I remember laughing right out loud the moment I first tried creating a smooth bass line by moving the root notes around, so that the chords hung from the ascending notes like charms off a charm bracelet. So ridiculously simple, but still magic.

The woods are like that. Some wet mornings, the forest is rooted deep, everything starts at the bottom and works its way slowly up. On other mornings, like today, the sun fingers through the topmost branches, and it is as if the whole forest is lifted, suspended from its real root, the light in the high sky. And also today, just as I was turning to go to work, suddenly a blurry mass of thrushes rushed through the forest, and lo and behold, the woods played one more fingering of the same chord: the roots and sky held back in support of the middle singing sound of birds pervading everything. Still the same woods: but all these different voicings of its ecological music.
(p.t.)