Words and Music by Michael T Roberts
To be premiered by International Orange Chorale, December 4, 2021 (Berkeley) and December 18, 2021 (San Francisco)
Come, clouds
Come, rain
Come now
Stay
Come, you protective blanket
Yield not this way
Bless us with water
We will receive you with joy and gratitude
We will not grumble—never, NEVER
We will not use you as a metaphor for trouble or sadness
For we see you
From this distant shore, we see you
We know your name
Goddess
Hear us, Goddess
Come to us, Goddess
Open to us, Goddess
Release to us
Come to us in water
Flow, Goddess
Release, Goddess
Come, clouds
Come, rain
Come now
Stay
© 2021 Michael T Roberts
Come, rain
Come now
Stay
Come, you protective blanket
Yield not this way
Bless us with water
We will receive you with joy and gratitude
We will not grumble—never, NEVER
We will not use you as a metaphor for trouble or sadness
For we see you
From this distant shore, we see you
We know your name
Goddess
Hear us, Goddess
Come to us, Goddess
Open to us, Goddess
Release to us
Come to us in water
Flow, Goddess
Release, Goddess
Come, clouds
Come, rain
Come now
Stay
© 2021 Michael T Roberts
Performance notes
These notes were originally written for the singers of International Orange Chorale.
As a prayer for rain, the piece is based largely on the elemental/alchemical symbol for Water, an inverted blue triangle:
In the Druid tradition that I practice, Water is associated with the West and feminine energy. The element of growth and compassion, it is both receptive and dynamic. To put it in terms of Chinese cosmology, it is yin to the yang of Fire and the sun. When I think of the element of water, I think of moonlight on a still lake with the dark earth beneath. I think of a creek flowing in the shade of willow and alder. I think of dark clouds and steady rain. I think of mystery and possibility. I think of the Goddess. (More on that below.)
So this symbol for Water and its associations manifest in various ways in the piece:
• The opening color breathing
• The number 3 (or its multiple 6), as in the three sides or points of the triangle:
Triple meter (even 8/8 is subdivided into three groups, usually 3+3+2)
Key signature of 6 flats
Voices subdividing into 6 parts
Roughly tripartite form: A, B, and a fusion of the two
• The inverted triangle makes a couple of appearances:
The unison breathing at the start and finish
This ascending figure
• This figure, with its sliding pitches, is meant to have a liquid quality. However, it probably goes without saying that the pitches should be in tune at the start of each beat. That may require the sliding effect to be subtle, especially when moving only a half-step. See how it goes and adjust as needed.
• All those flats, sitting on all those black keys, feel very yin to me. (Hat tip to Eric Whitacre in Water Night!)
• All those G-flats. No, not a commentary on the ability of altos to find their pitches! I didn't set out to write a billion G-flats in a row; in the first section I was just enjoying the soprano and tenor notes against that drone. Then I was enjoying hearing the harmonies shifting around that note, the tension it created. Then that note started to feel significant in a new way, a symbolic way. It's like the bedrock that anchors every other part; it suggested to me the element of Earth, then the Earth Mother, and pretty soon I was just thinking of it as the Goddess Note. So savor that G-flat. It's special.
Some Thoughts on Praying for Rain
I almost didn't write this piece, and I almost abandoned it numerous times. To pray for rain, or conduct a magical ritual or spell for rain, seems fundamentally hubristic. Not surprisingly, a cursory investigation reveals many tales of rainmaking gone horribly wrong. (By the way, in writing this piece I thought of it alternately as prayer and as magic-making. For all intents and purposes, I consider them the same thing; each combines intentionality with an appeal to a higher or unseen power.) And even if you do decide to undertake the task, how does it work? They didn't cover that in grad school. Bringing rain is not (I assume) like learning to unclog a sink or prune a fruit tree. You don't look it up on YouTube.
So to start, I did a Druidy thing: I conducted an Ogham reading. Ogham is a set of Celtic rune-like symbols used for divination, much like tarot. Each symbol corresponds to a species of tree. You ask a question, then draw three cards representing the past, present, and future respectively. It's not really about predicting the future; it's more about gaining useful insight into what you're doing, or thinking about doing.
I first tried this last year in respect to conducting a ritual for rain. I don't remember the exact cards I drew, but the message was very clear: don't do it. You are out of your depth.
This second time turned out differently. I asked: "What do I need to know about creating a prayer for rain?" The cards I drew were Elder, Willow, and Hawthorn—plants strongly associated with the element of Water in Druid cosmology, and with goddesses that govern the doorway between the material and spirit worlds. That gave me some confidence that the reading was a strong one, a "true" one. (I am a total novice at this, by the way.)
I consulted a few books that explain the meaning of each Ogham symbol. For Elder, the card representing the past, I read this in Celtic Tree Magic by Danu Forest: "By sacrificing the past, new energy is released, benefiting from the nourishment produced from the healthy decay of things that have passed their time...On its deepest level, the elder shows the presence of the ancestors and their guidance. It counsels the proper conduct necessary to be worthy to join the ancestors in due time."
To me this meant it was important to let go of any preconceived notions I might have about what a prayer or ritual for rain should be, and to come to this piece with beginner's mind. As a composer, I should be strengthened by my experiences but not limited by what I already know. And most importantly, I should proceed in a spirit of humility, mindful of my ignorance and prepared to ask for guidance at every step.
I learned that Willow, the card representing the present, is associated with the goddess Hecate, who "was said to be able to create or hold back storms and rain." Willow symbolizes fertility, regeneration, imagination, motherly/feminine energy, and shamanic crossing between worlds. Willow "helps restore flow and harmony within ourselves and in the world around us." So far, so good.
As a practical matter for my work as a composer, Willow encourages flexibility. Again, this suggested to me that I needed to really let go and allow the piece to manifest itself. I am always most uncomfortable at the very start of the creative process, before the boundaries of the piece are established. I knew that for this piece I would need to be willing to stay in that indeterminate space, to let ideas come and let them go, to entertain numerous possibilities for the direction of the piece. And that's exactly what happened. I never really did establish boundaries. It was uncomfortable, sometimes very much so, but I tried to get out of the way, listen, sketch ideas without knowing where they might fit, and let it come together how it wanted to.
Hawthorn, the card representing the future, gave me an indication that this would be a tough one—but also that everything would come out OK in the end. There were times when I really needed that confidence. According to Danu Forest, the crone goddess (associated with Hawthorn) "periodically sets harsh tasks through all our lives. This is why Cuchulain called the hawthorn 'most difficult night.' It is a time of fears and storm, but at the end of it comes the dawn." Hawthorn "questions your worthiness, and even if you fail, you will be nearer your goal than before...It shows you the truth of your heart. It can signify love, union, and connection with the goddess if your heart is ready."
It was this Ogham reading that convinced me this piece was only sort of about bringing rain, much as I love it and would really like to have more of it. It's really about connecting with the Goddess in a spirit of humility and reverence, and hoping to experience the renewal and growth she brings. In this, too—praying to the Goddess, that is—I am a novice. I grew up Christian, and still am in my own unorthodox way, and although I think I would have always said that God was neither male nor female, this piece helped me realize that yeah, I do sort of have that image of the big dude with the white beard stuck in my head. That association with "God" is just too firmly entrenched. If I want to honor and invoke the sacred feminine—and that's the most important thing this piece does, or at least tries to do—it's time to start calling her by a different name. Her own name.
I wrote a lot of words that didn't ultimately make it into the piece, words that describe what I was imagining during this prayer to the Goddess: the actual process of her clearing the way for a storm, of opening the skies and preparing the earth to receive the gift of water from the sea. I include some of these words here for you to use in visualizing the coming of rain, in the hopes that it will add power and intention to the music you're creating. Alternatively, you could continue to visualize the blue light that you began to work with at the start of the piece. Of course, you can visualize anything that's particularly meaningful or inspiring to you, or if you prefer, nothing at all.
By this creek bed filled with Elder leaves
Release us, Goddess, from the past
By this branch of Willow tipped with acorn
Ground us, Goddess, in this moment
By this hedge of Hawthorn piercing earthward
Open us the gate
If we are worthy
Goddess, release
Carve the sky hollow
A channel deep and wide
The dark sea give birth to storm
The path is prepared
Pierce this crust
Release, Goddess
Into the hollow
Flow, Goddess
Into the dark earth
Fire lie down
Smoke lie down
Dust lie down
Your day will come again
But tonight, lie down
The dark sea reigns
The deep earth rises
The wind and sky, their servants
Goddess, your children are here
As a prayer for rain, the piece is based largely on the elemental/alchemical symbol for Water, an inverted blue triangle:
In the Druid tradition that I practice, Water is associated with the West and feminine energy. The element of growth and compassion, it is both receptive and dynamic. To put it in terms of Chinese cosmology, it is yin to the yang of Fire and the sun. When I think of the element of water, I think of moonlight on a still lake with the dark earth beneath. I think of a creek flowing in the shade of willow and alder. I think of dark clouds and steady rain. I think of mystery and possibility. I think of the Goddess. (More on that below.)
So this symbol for Water and its associations manifest in various ways in the piece:
• The opening color breathing
• The number 3 (or its multiple 6), as in the three sides or points of the triangle:
Triple meter (even 8/8 is subdivided into three groups, usually 3+3+2)
Key signature of 6 flats
Voices subdividing into 6 parts
Roughly tripartite form: A, B, and a fusion of the two
• The inverted triangle makes a couple of appearances:
The unison breathing at the start and finish
This ascending figure
• This figure, with its sliding pitches, is meant to have a liquid quality. However, it probably goes without saying that the pitches should be in tune at the start of each beat. That may require the sliding effect to be subtle, especially when moving only a half-step. See how it goes and adjust as needed.
• All those flats, sitting on all those black keys, feel very yin to me. (Hat tip to Eric Whitacre in Water Night!)
• All those G-flats. No, not a commentary on the ability of altos to find their pitches! I didn't set out to write a billion G-flats in a row; in the first section I was just enjoying the soprano and tenor notes against that drone. Then I was enjoying hearing the harmonies shifting around that note, the tension it created. Then that note started to feel significant in a new way, a symbolic way. It's like the bedrock that anchors every other part; it suggested to me the element of Earth, then the Earth Mother, and pretty soon I was just thinking of it as the Goddess Note. So savor that G-flat. It's special.
Some Thoughts on Praying for Rain
I almost didn't write this piece, and I almost abandoned it numerous times. To pray for rain, or conduct a magical ritual or spell for rain, seems fundamentally hubristic. Not surprisingly, a cursory investigation reveals many tales of rainmaking gone horribly wrong. (By the way, in writing this piece I thought of it alternately as prayer and as magic-making. For all intents and purposes, I consider them the same thing; each combines intentionality with an appeal to a higher or unseen power.) And even if you do decide to undertake the task, how does it work? They didn't cover that in grad school. Bringing rain is not (I assume) like learning to unclog a sink or prune a fruit tree. You don't look it up on YouTube.
So to start, I did a Druidy thing: I conducted an Ogham reading. Ogham is a set of Celtic rune-like symbols used for divination, much like tarot. Each symbol corresponds to a species of tree. You ask a question, then draw three cards representing the past, present, and future respectively. It's not really about predicting the future; it's more about gaining useful insight into what you're doing, or thinking about doing.
I first tried this last year in respect to conducting a ritual for rain. I don't remember the exact cards I drew, but the message was very clear: don't do it. You are out of your depth.
This second time turned out differently. I asked: "What do I need to know about creating a prayer for rain?" The cards I drew were Elder, Willow, and Hawthorn—plants strongly associated with the element of Water in Druid cosmology, and with goddesses that govern the doorway between the material and spirit worlds. That gave me some confidence that the reading was a strong one, a "true" one. (I am a total novice at this, by the way.)
I consulted a few books that explain the meaning of each Ogham symbol. For Elder, the card representing the past, I read this in Celtic Tree Magic by Danu Forest: "By sacrificing the past, new energy is released, benefiting from the nourishment produced from the healthy decay of things that have passed their time...On its deepest level, the elder shows the presence of the ancestors and their guidance. It counsels the proper conduct necessary to be worthy to join the ancestors in due time."
To me this meant it was important to let go of any preconceived notions I might have about what a prayer or ritual for rain should be, and to come to this piece with beginner's mind. As a composer, I should be strengthened by my experiences but not limited by what I already know. And most importantly, I should proceed in a spirit of humility, mindful of my ignorance and prepared to ask for guidance at every step.
I learned that Willow, the card representing the present, is associated with the goddess Hecate, who "was said to be able to create or hold back storms and rain." Willow symbolizes fertility, regeneration, imagination, motherly/feminine energy, and shamanic crossing between worlds. Willow "helps restore flow and harmony within ourselves and in the world around us." So far, so good.
As a practical matter for my work as a composer, Willow encourages flexibility. Again, this suggested to me that I needed to really let go and allow the piece to manifest itself. I am always most uncomfortable at the very start of the creative process, before the boundaries of the piece are established. I knew that for this piece I would need to be willing to stay in that indeterminate space, to let ideas come and let them go, to entertain numerous possibilities for the direction of the piece. And that's exactly what happened. I never really did establish boundaries. It was uncomfortable, sometimes very much so, but I tried to get out of the way, listen, sketch ideas without knowing where they might fit, and let it come together how it wanted to.
Hawthorn, the card representing the future, gave me an indication that this would be a tough one—but also that everything would come out OK in the end. There were times when I really needed that confidence. According to Danu Forest, the crone goddess (associated with Hawthorn) "periodically sets harsh tasks through all our lives. This is why Cuchulain called the hawthorn 'most difficult night.' It is a time of fears and storm, but at the end of it comes the dawn." Hawthorn "questions your worthiness, and even if you fail, you will be nearer your goal than before...It shows you the truth of your heart. It can signify love, union, and connection with the goddess if your heart is ready."
It was this Ogham reading that convinced me this piece was only sort of about bringing rain, much as I love it and would really like to have more of it. It's really about connecting with the Goddess in a spirit of humility and reverence, and hoping to experience the renewal and growth she brings. In this, too—praying to the Goddess, that is—I am a novice. I grew up Christian, and still am in my own unorthodox way, and although I think I would have always said that God was neither male nor female, this piece helped me realize that yeah, I do sort of have that image of the big dude with the white beard stuck in my head. That association with "God" is just too firmly entrenched. If I want to honor and invoke the sacred feminine—and that's the most important thing this piece does, or at least tries to do—it's time to start calling her by a different name. Her own name.
I wrote a lot of words that didn't ultimately make it into the piece, words that describe what I was imagining during this prayer to the Goddess: the actual process of her clearing the way for a storm, of opening the skies and preparing the earth to receive the gift of water from the sea. I include some of these words here for you to use in visualizing the coming of rain, in the hopes that it will add power and intention to the music you're creating. Alternatively, you could continue to visualize the blue light that you began to work with at the start of the piece. Of course, you can visualize anything that's particularly meaningful or inspiring to you, or if you prefer, nothing at all.
By this creek bed filled with Elder leaves
Release us, Goddess, from the past
By this branch of Willow tipped with acorn
Ground us, Goddess, in this moment
By this hedge of Hawthorn piercing earthward
Open us the gate
If we are worthy
Goddess, release
Carve the sky hollow
A channel deep and wide
The dark sea give birth to storm
The path is prepared
Pierce this crust
Release, Goddess
Into the hollow
Flow, Goddess
Into the dark earth
Fire lie down
Smoke lie down
Dust lie down
Your day will come again
But tonight, lie down
The dark sea reigns
The deep earth rises
The wind and sky, their servants
Goddess, your children are here