Life! There are different reflections, and a myriad performance of mirrors. Life is what we make of it. It is also what we experience, within! What is so captivating and nourishing about the mind is how it permits us to take a trip, down to the lane of memory. We listen. We remember! There are treasures in our mental timeline. What does it mean for us to have taken down that journey, of seeing pleasant images-hearing, those sacred, sounds? What does it mean to move into a pattern of bringing the past, into present pleasantries? How can we continue to experience past memories, in the present? There is much to be sung about that.
What is the lushness of life? How does it move us into a different understanding in the meaning of time and space? How does it really move us, when meditating on their reflections?
Jazz-a Treasure of the gardens in Black American soil-has been one of those musical genres, which permits us to, reflect on pasttimes. And, I really mean going through the process of permitting the mind to wander. What does it say about the true pleasures of time, and how it can be crafted and designed into our desires? Time is not what we have made it to be. Even past times are connected to the present.
There is one iconic song, sung by greats such as Sarah Vaughan, and others birthed from that peculiar group of people. Even until this present day, it continues to showcase it’s relevance for the modern time. Life is much more abundant than we could ever imagine-if we dare to imagine. Quite frankly, it moves us into that place of stillness; despite how rich it has become.
There was a certain dame, of a peculiar name, who decided to return to such a song. Coming from a different culture in the South African scene, she was attracted to this perfume of Black American gardens. For 45 years, she was based in New York City. Yet, during her transition, she would return to the land of her birth. Life’s lush-like decor would be performed again, but this time for, another era of Universal time. Her name is none other than. . .