I am a big fan of gifting; a recent post link. As a matter of fact I just wrote a poem on the subject, which means I have been immersed in the archetype. I’ll add the poem at the end of this post. I am inspired mostly to share this guy’s music right now: Laurence Cole. I’m sure I have run across a song or two of his over the years but, with the web-based opportunities for musicians, this site is an astounding creative work/offering/gift to those that love inspiring song.

As far as I can tell, these decades worth of song are listed and recorded with several voices each! Meaning, alto, baritone etc., whether it’s a round or just harmony. And Cole also includes personal inspiration for the creation of each song, so they all come with stories. Example first up on the home page of his site can be embedded here because it’s on SoundCloud:

Though if you want the parts, you’ll have to go to the site. I love that Cole is able to not only share his compositions in this way, but that he is clearly an educator. He wants his songs to be used, and gives away lyrics and recordings, as I said. We can also buy cds and scores, and there’s a donation page, natch. There are, however, 54 songs as I counted them, on his free music page. I look forward to listening to a few each day.


A Great Longing is Upon Us is the song I wanted to feature here, though. The lyrics are simple, as circle or group songs are. Such songs are for setting intentions, for inviting healing; they are spells, prayers, invocations:

A great longing is upon us, to live again in a world made of gifts.

Come back, sweet world, where all flourishing is mutual.

I share his feeling.

And here is my poem, fresh from the snowy winter garden. Not nearly as simple ;). Enjoy!

Joy Comes Down the Chimney                      1/11/20

Where did all the Joy go? Did I chase it off? /Did I let it rot and crumble?

Did I toss it away, too hot to handle, /When I learned happiness is unbecoming

In a world in love with “serious”?/ Can joy be reconstructed? built, woven, crafted?


First stop, Santa’s workshop, where/All the wee green elves in my heart

Ply their only trade; the weaving of Joy.

Soul-bells tinkling on their jester hats and shoes/ Ridiculous fools, obviously, for Joy is a jest

A tale told wherein life’s dramatic sound and fury/ Signify nothing. For Joy, though it may

Walk out from the wings when worldly gifts appear/ Is only felt, and never seen.

Santa knows this, of course. / As magical mastermind of the heart, he finds it obvious

That our worldly desires are Joy./ Joy cleverly hidden, wrapped up and beribboned,

The light of the universe substantiated./ The lavish opened gift is Joy unleashed, and

Our foolish hearts revealed./ The gods do watch for Joy’s smile of delight

That proves they got it right.

Wise to human ways, Santa / Knows better than to knock at the door.

Doors keep things out, and/ Between the knock and the hinge’s turn, our human minds

May decide we are better off without the Joy/ Waiting patiently on the threshold.

As disappointments dog our years,/ We shackle Joy’s smile to the mind’s

Wizard of Oz smokescreen projector. / We, convolute and contrary, try

Gaining happiness by trading in unhappiness./ Engrossed in the game, we forget;

It was Joy we forfeited at the game’s beginning. /Joy is the stake at competition’s betting table

So that we might strive for Joy, or appear to./ First we must forget it’s a gift we received eons ago

In the dawn of all time and space.

But Joy, no, Joy will not be pushed about/ Like poker chips in a crowded casino.

Like smoke, up the chimney it flies/ While we work our levers and grit our teeth

Daring the world to defy us./ Refusing to remember that Desire-and-Gift

Is the infinite game that Joy plays/ In the quantum fields of Light.

While humans lock their doors and/ Check their watches,

Joy steps in from the realms of impossibility,/ Squeezing through the chimney portal,

Wisely going down where humans believe/ Things ought to go up

For expectation is not arrival./ Unscathed through fire and smoke

Ample white beard and furs clean and fluffy-pure / Joy falls through creosote into coal.

Santa delivers and Santa receives./ The impossible servant of Joy

Who eats a sacred surfeit of cookies, Joy’s abundant sweetness.

Who drinks a magical Milky Way’s worth of the/ Mammalian mother’s heart-begotten kindnesses.

Holy Fool, he transcends the rules;/ He knows everybody, and he knows that

All are special, and all are loved/ By the Source of Joy itself. All are gift,

And in that simultaneously gifted.

After Santa’s impossible journey he retires,/ Back to his elvish home, where

The purity of snow never breaks its stride./ The snow that holds Joy’s peaceful side.

For Joy has many children, and one of them is Peace,/ Winter’s gift of holy stillness.

The workshop of the heart/ Is never still, though it is also never busy.

Creation Itself always moves and flows and shapeshifts/ An infinity of gifts, broadcasting its eternal call for receivers;

Would you like this? Or, maybe this?/ For only that which is received can be named Gift.

Do not despair if your doors are closed, for Joy/ Will find a way in. The road is as wide as your heart.

You may not see it coming,/ But if you’re not looking at the clock,

If you relax your hold on the levers,/ Joy will silently descend the chimney of your body-house,

And Santa and the loving Unseen will re-joice/ In the opening of your smile.