To my fellow musicians…

“I didn’t get it until I was fifty,” said a friend of mine after a church. Music is so difficult to understand. “I was constantly worried about how the piece sounded and I forgot about ‘it;’ and some people never get it.” This was something that frightened me. How could something that I feel so strongly about, the one element in my life I would do anything to hold on to, be the one thing that I might never understand? The one thing many musicians have defined as the “universal language” or the “language of the soul.”

I used to be one of those people that pitied those who played their instruments and/or sang in subway stations and sidewalks. This went on until about a week ago when some friends and I were in the underpass to the L-train in NYC. There, in this grimy, smelly, germ-infested corridor sat a young man with his cello playing Bach – the cello suites I would guess. That moment, pity was shed and replaced with appreciation. I have studied and have played and/or sung a lot of Bach’s music. What this cellist was doing was nothing short of beautiful.

My very gifted organ professor, Renée Anne Louprette, once said to me that organists are very strange creatures. We sit behind a huge machine and try to create music from this large monster that has an endless amount of air. I have found that what we as musicians do is very difficult. Making sounds is not what we do or strive for.

Years ago, I was in the Drakensberg Boys’ Choir and had a choirmaster, Christian Ashley-Botha, who we called Maestro. The wise man said “I think all us muzos are an odd lot. We all try to make something amazing, moving, touching compelling out of abstract sound. Music is so odd because it is so powerful and yet so intangible and transient … there for a moment and then gone for ever. No wonder we are a little crazy!” It’s at those few and far-between moments we share with listeners that we make a heartfelt or moving impact. That is what musicians do and strive for. You never who is listening and you never know the magnitude of what you are saying or doing to them. I wish people who told me that a career in music is grueling really knew what the grueling part of it was…

No matter how hard it is, we should keep going and doing what few truly understand and appreciate. Thomas H. Troger’s article in the American Guild of Organists says that “Every time you perform on the organ or conduct a choir or play on some other instrument, you are participating in the ongoing work of creation. We often joke about the resolutions we make on January 1, knowing how briefly they last. But I do not make fun of the impulse that lies behind them: I believe our wanting to start anew is related to the God-given desire to create a better life and a better world with the materials at hand. Every time you play or conduct or sing a composition, there is the possibility that you will strengthen the gracious creative impulse in some listener’s heart. That is one more good reason to keep playing all year long.”

Happy New Year and keep making music!

The Queen B elects to Pantsula

As I’m sure everybody knows, Beyonce’s new video is out and I have no better word to describe than fierce. I had been looking forward to seeing the accompanying visuals to this woman-empowering anthem.

So here I am this morning doing my normal email-facebook routine and I come across Who Run The World‘s new music video. I’m excited and I click play. From the get-go, the anticipatory and tension-filled music has me hooked! I mean hook, line and sinker; from the stallion she is riding to the lion crouching beside her, I am hooked. Her gaze meets the camera and she looks more beautiful than the Cleopatra she is emulating. She does her walk, the music starts and out comes Sasha – oh snap! This is gonna be hot, I think to myself!

The chorus kicks in and the very first movements she does scream isiPantsula! uyaPantsula I think to myself. Throughout the entire first verse she Pantsulas. Initially I wasn’t pleased with this at all – she is jacking one of South Africa’s dancing styles, I thought! Is she going to give credit where it’s due? Perhaps it was the attitude she performed it with, or the fact that she had two Mozambican kwaito dancers dancing with her, or maybe because she did the flat-footed dance in heels that won me over.

ukuPantsula means “to waddle,” like geese do. I don’t like geese – that’s a story for another time. I am not entirely sure whether it is a Xhosa or Zulu word since the two languages share so many words – I would say Xhosa but I don’t want to anger any Zulu-speakers. isiPantsula was developed in the townships of South Africa primarily by males. I have memories of my childhood in Mamelodi Gardens, in Pretoria, where the older guys would be wearing All Star shoes or Converse (as is in the video) doing the pantsula and competing to see who was more skilled at it; in a style similar to breakdancing here in the United States. The dance requires you some serious technique.

I must say that she actually does a good job in the video – especially in heels. I wish she would “waddle” a little more and add more of the flair of the nonchalant flair that isiPantsula has – and she captures it in some moments. I am impressed with her hard work. It is not an easy style to crack! And thank you for releasing the video on South Africa’s democratic election day. Coincidence or not, it makes a point.

Bravo Queen B! F*** you if you don’t like me…or her

Check out some South Africans doing the Real Makoya!

Like, REALLY???

“Oh my gosh! I love, love, love it! It’s awesome!!”
Okay. I get it. You like it. A lot. Why the overkill?

I’ve been asked by many people whether I’ve experienced a lot of cultural shock being that I come from South Africa. There are many similarities and differences but nothing comes to mind as quickly as the overkill, magnification, embellishment, and exaggeration of simple statements! “Girlfriend, do you really like that top that much???”

I get it, some people (like you) love, luv, lurv, to be expressive. These people have a tendency to want to be number one in everything they do by one-upping (or should I say three-upping?) the rest of the world. But have you noticed how you’ve “one-upped” yourself into a corner? A corner lacking…wait for it…breathe…let’s overuse the ellipses…still waiting?…good…adjectives!
Wait! What?! That didn’t even make sense. Ugh (I just need to be overtly flambouyant now)! Don’t you just hate it when people do that? Just tell me what on God’s green earth you want to say. A corner lacking adjectives? YES!

“I detest that kid. Absolutely loath him. He makes my skin crawl.”

“We’ve like become so accustomed to like being soooo like over the top that we like become like impervious (oops, that’s too big a word!), unaffected!…by hearing like someone express their feelings about like someone/thing.”
 Like really?! As far as I know, “like” is a simile. Pardon me if I’m incorrect.
“So what I’m saying is that we have almost become so accustomed to almost being soooo almost over the top that we almost become almost imp…(nope!)…unaffected by hearing almost someone express their feelings about almost someone/thing.” Do you blame me for always looking confused when we’re chatting? What’s the point of trying to be number one when every third word you utter is almost “almost?” Almost doesn’t count.

I have a proposition: Let’s minimise everything. Love what you really love. Don’t be afraid to say that you simply “like” something. Nothing wrong with that. Recipients of these words: Do not be offended. Liking something is a good thing. Look at Facebook! But now it’s my turn to confuse you: Stop “liking” everything. I. Am. Sure. We. Can. Think. Of. What. We. Need. To. Say. Before. We. Say. It. I mean, the way we speak is like, really, seriously, unbelievably, incredibly, unrealistically…I don’t even have the words to describe it!

Meet the Family

Meet the Family

In light of recent events, I feel I must preface this piece by stating that the past few weeks have been very unkind. Having endured a betrayal by my best friend with someone I was very interested in, nothing has spent more time in my analytical mind and slightly bruised heart. Not the Bach Prelude I must finish learning, not the endless amount of homework and studying that needs to get done, not the six concerts I am attending within the span of two weeks, not even the music that has held my sanity for so long. Nothing. Only the constant replay of the rejection by the object of my affection – in romance and as of late, in friendship.

Rejection is something that I have experienced numerous times. In fact I am so acquainted with him that at times I feel closer to him than I do with most people. We have all experienced him to a certain degree – some more extensively than others. It is human nature to accept what we do like and what we do not like. Think of an infant’s horrified face when he tastes something bitter – which he is likely to spit out – and his face when he resigns himself to the pleasure of that sweet something. This simple theory spans right across many aspects of us beings, if not all. Mark R. Leary writes that we “human beings devote great effort to obtaining the attention, approval, and acceptance of other people” because we “are an exceptionally social species with a strong need to belong and an even stronger aversion to being rejected. We not only spend most of our lives in proximity with other people but also typically want those individuals to accept us at some minimal level.”

When we rub shoulders with Rejection, he typically comes bearing not-so-glad tidings. And those tidings translate to “you’re not good enough.” Leary states that we are attracted to mates who match or exceed our physical and intellectual capabilities and attributes. He refers to this phenomenon as Falling Upward. This means that rejection is more likely to hang-out with you than not. Take the case of a potential romantic partner for instance; we reject someone’s affection toward us (even though we are beings that are constantly seeking approval and acceptance) because we find their intellect, physical features, and other traits undesirable to us. They do not meet the standards we have set for the one partner we hope to find. We believe, inadvertently, that they are not worthy of us. We are better. We will indulge in the yummy, bare the bland, and spit out whatever makes us gag. Although we are averse to admitting it, we think and feel ourselves superior. Meet Rejection’s parents – Superiority and Inferiority.

Mind you, Superiority and Inferiority do not only have one child, they have many. Come meet some of the family members: Over here we have Anti-semitism, Ageism, Sexism, and the one watching T.V. in the den is Racism. He doesn’t talk much but we know he is there. The other “-isms,” as I like to call Superiority and Inferiority’s children, are running around the house and yard. It’s not an easy job keeping track of such a large family. They cause mayhem. I guess it’s their way of  making their presence known.

Racism is one of Superiority and Inferiority’s children who seems to like me a lot. He always wants to spend time with me. I don’t like to because he is exceptionally unpleasant.

My parents moved from the townships in South Africa to the suburbs when they could afford it. The townships, unlike American townships, are where the majority of the black people live in any of the outskirts of the cities. We moved to the suburbs and we lived among the many white folk. My parents loved the fact that I was in mixed-race schools and was growing up in a South Africa that they could only dream of as a young one. My mom tried to preserve this thinking pattern in me when she had to answer my question I had asked her earlier:
“They treat me differently. Why mama?”
“Because you’re black my boy. There are some people who don’t like other people for silly reasons like that. They look down on us. But you must accept others as they are.”
I can not, in all honesty, say that I experienced racial discrimination at school back home extensively. Nothing that was blatant. Nothing that was subtle. We, school-children knew we were different, but we accepted each other as we were. All the way from pre-school to high-school. Outside of school was different. I found similarities when I came to the States. But what really caught my attention is how my lecturers would ask me a question that was related to Africa and expect me to know the answer to it. Or how they would talk about Nigeria, Congo, Mozambique or some other country in Africa, and expect me to relate. The intentions, I believe, are always good; a way to find some common ground and relate and make feel welcomed the foreigners. Professor bell hooks refers to this phenomenon as objectifying when she talks about her teaching experiences in a multicultural classroom:

Transforming these classrooms is as great a challenge as learning how to teach well in the setting of diversity. Often, if there is one lone person of color in the classroom she or he is objectified by the others and forced to assume the role of the “native informant.” For example, a novel is read by a Koran American author. White students turn to the one student from a Korean background to explain what they do not understand. This places an unfair responsibility onto that student. Professors can intervene in this process by making it clear from the outset that experience does not make one an expert, and perhaps even by explaining what it means to place someone in the role of “native informant.” it must be stated that professors cannot intervene if they also see students as “native informants.”

I remember my cousin, Patrick (we used to call him Pat-pat), loved being a teacher. Having been in predominantly white/multicultural private schools for my entire life, I sometimes felt some kind of displaced obligation about being at the schools I was blessed to be in. My cousin constantly asked me about available teaching jobs at my schools. Needless to say I was not clued up about this at all. His consistent interrogation about my schools’ system had me wondering why he really wanted to be there. Did he genuinely want a better job at well-respected schools? Did he believe he would be deemed good enough by the only-white teachers we had? Did he have something to prove?  Did he want to disprove preconceptions that people had about black people? This stirred a pot of thoughts and questions about myself too: Why was I not sure whether I wanted him there? Was it because I would feel embarrassed that he was my cousin? Was it perhaps because I did not think he would be seen as worthy? I found the answer when I ventured into my bedroom, lay on my queen-sized bed, and stared up at the ceiling. Why did I always work so hard? I wanted to be one of the few black people that could do it. Meaning achieve those awards. Do the things that mostly white children would do such as being an organist. I recall having thoughts of wanting to be one of the first black world-renowned South African organists. Why were my motivations so profoundly based on race? Why was I constantly trying to prove myself? I do not know the answer to that just yet, but I believe it is rooted in my not believing that I was not good enough. Rejection tells me this every time he pays me a visit. I do know that I did not want the typical negative stereotypes being attached to me. I got those awards and managed to disassociate myself with those stereotypes and generalisations. Pat-pat passed away a few years ago. He never taught at the schools he hoped to teach in.

I often wonder what challenges I will face as a potential black teacher. Stereotypes about black, white, jewish, asian, Indian, south american, and others, will always be everywhere I go. Do I constantly have to disprove peoples’ generalisations and biased perspectives? I do not want to have to do that any longer. My will to work-hard has been successfully converted into a good work ethic. I now know that I am good enough. I have proved it to others. But most importantly, I have proven it to myself.

None of Superiority and Inferiority’s children are allowed in any of the schools. They are all banned and, thus, uneducated. Schools have a “zero-tolerance” policy when it comes to those “-ism” kids. I did tell you earlier that they like to cause mayhem and they always find a way into these places from which they are banished. You know where they break in? The mind. The dark crevices of man are his most private space. There he can murder, rape, abuse, and live out all his fantasies. And he can not be held accountable by anyone there – except himself. Laws and policies enforce against acts of prejudice, but thinking patterns are what need to be altered when it comes to the “-ism” siblings. And this can only be done through education. I do not think those mayhem kids were born by that skinny woman – no woman has that many children and keeps that figure! I am almost certain they were adopted through that local agency called Ignorance-Insults.

It will be my job as a potential teacher to keep my students away from such agents using education.

My friend Rejection and I will be friends for many years to come. We will never lose contact. He will not reject my friendship either – he is sweet. So accepting of everyone. We could all learn a thing about acceptance from Rejection. I did tell him though, that when we do go out for dinner and drinks in the future, he should not speak. Ever. I do not need to hear his message. His presence is more than enough for me. Is that not how it is with friends and other close people anyway?

Bringing Music to Life

 

Working on a song in the studio is like putting a puzzle together: You have time to perfect things, work on each part and instrument separately, transpose and transcribe, and do many things to paint the audial image you are working on as perfectly as you can. You complete the record, and it is finished. It remains the same throughout the duplication and downloads.  Working on a song and preparing it for a live performance is very similar to this, but instead of creating what I like to call an equivalent of “still-life,” you aim to create Harry Potter-style pictures: You piece things together (like in studio), but instead of focusing on the nitty-gritty of transposing and transcribing, you try to bring out the emotion captured in the record as an ensemble and to bring the audial image to life. Everyone needs to be in the same mindset to achieve this common goal and I, this past August, was blessed enough to watch how my own music came to life.

I was sitting in the kitchen with my host in May this year, and after being profoundly moved by Infinite Family‘s work, I was talking about finding a way to help raise funds for the young yet thriving organisation:

“Do a concert.”

“A concert?”

“Yeah. Perform your songs, get some exposure and drive traffic to your site. It’s a win win.”

It was a brilliant idea! I had been looking to perform, but hadn’t found the right opportunity. What better way to have my music associated with a cause bigger than me? I will admit that I wasn’t sure I could pull it off, but with the help of many-a-friend, the project started rolling.

It was not easy, there were many disagreements and sleepless nights, tears, and near cancellations.

But it was all worth it. Finding Infinity 2010: A Benefit Concert was born. On the 29th of August, Jeff Jacobs, Molly Dunn, Jason Asbury, Paula Both, Lisa Hoehne, myself and group of very talented musicians and volunteers convened and shared our talents, passions and time. We had aimed for an audience of 60, but we received more than 100 people! We had music ranging from Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor to the World Cup theme song, Waka Waka performed by Shakira.

$1300.00 is what we raised that day. Income from the EP – Infinite Winner – that we released on that day, t-shirt sales, donations, and Jeff Jacob’s donated portion of proceeds from his sales, helped us reach our goal. It was a blessing for me to watch my Harry Potter-style images come to life for the first time. Studio music does not necessarily translate well live, but judging from the reception, I am glad to say that I think I still have a shot if I keep working hard, and have your cheers encouraging me.

Thank you to everyone who was involved in the concert. Thank you to Prospect Presbyterian Church and Zigo Carriers for sponsoring the event.

Videos of this are coming soon. I promise.

Music in the Berkshires

Music is music. Die-hard classical musicians find it very difficult to find the entertainment in the typical I-V-IV-V chord progression of what is spinning on the Top 40. Likewise, those who can not appreciate the beauty and artistry of classical music can not bear to listen to it.

About a year ago I was invited to join an octet and singing with them has been a true blessing. The sheer beauty of singing and hearing our voices blend in harmony when we are together can be spectacular – even if I say so myself. I am surrounded by great singers! This past weekend we headed to the Berkshire’s in MA where we dined with new friends at their farm, re-affirmed existing friendships over bottles of 3-buck chuck around bon-fires, learned of the friskier sides of angelic people on short hikes, and had a time filled with very hearty laughter. Only five of our eight could make it: Two tenors, two bases and one soprano. How serendipitous is it that we had a piece called The Lone Wild Bird?

One of the major events we attended In Massachusetts was A Prairie Home Companion at Tanglewood. This is a live radio show that is created and hosted by Garrison Keillor and distributed to a wide variety of public radio stations around the USA by American Public Media. The show features numerous guest musicians – generally folk and traditional – whimsical radio drama, high-larious anecdotes and a variety of other elements that make a live broadcast shows a pleasure. As we sat in our lawn chairs around a table filled with home-made delicacies, a group performed a song called Motherless Child. Carey (our lone, wild soprano) was out shopping for the CD already before they were on. I later learned that this song is sung by the Wailin’ Jennys. No, they do not wail. They sing. Beautifully. We listened to their album on the way back home and I dialed a little less into the Top 40 stuff – I’m still a fence-sitter when it comes to choosing between Lady Gaga and Mendelssohn.

Here is a Motherless Child by the Wailin’ Jennys.

My First Service

This is a church I visited in NYC - Rutgers Presbyterian Church..

The e-mail came in at 21:58 EST on the 23rd of April, 2010. In it was an offer to substitute for a couple of services at my church. My initial reaction was “no thank you.” But I held off from sending an immediate response. Why would I want to turn the offer down? Partially because the last time I accompanied a “congregation” on the Organ was eight years ago! I was thirteen. Another reason was because the last time I played the prelude/pre-service music I messed up the piece to the point that I thought I was recomposing the work as went along. That morning I walked out of the choir loft from all the shame I was feeling. Need I mention that I didn’t play at the end of the service as I was supposed to?

Regardless of all the past drama and humiliation I still felt from my failed attempt at being an Organist, I chose to play both the services. The first of which was on May 30th. Trinity Sunday. I didn’t know what that was either – still don’t. I prepared for the service more than I did for my audition for Montclair State University – that was two weeks before the service. I slowly fell off of my friends’ radar as I spent all my waking moments practising. Then it was the big day. I played. Mistakes here and there as I had anticipated. But not bad for having to find (and learn) the prelude, three hymns, the Doxology, the Gloria, the offertory, and the benediction. I ended up playing the postlude I had prepared to play for the service I had walked out on. Thank you Jenise for playing ever so elegantly with me in the prelude and offertory piece. And thank you Jason, my friend and music director, for giving me the opportunity.

Here is the simple, yet powerful piece by David German called the Festive Trumpet Tune which I played to end a successful service. The audio file is the piano and violin piece Jenise and I did. I hope I can pull off my next sub this coming Sunday.

That’s Not Her Name!

“Who’s Cousin?” asked the little girl.

Evolution is the development and transformation of something, usually from something simple to something more complex. This is the process my friend’s name has undergone. Now I have had my name butchered to the point where I don’t recognise it when it is called out in ceremonies, such as prize-givings, but I understand why it is so – my name is difficult to pronounce (click-Peter-click as my english professor would say. Hi Michelle!). But Kazuno’s name, on the other hand, is straight-forward, yet the name has taken some major beatings of its own.

For the first time in a long time, I spent quite a bit of time with my dear friend from Japan, Kazuno Iwai [ka-zoo-no, ee-va-yi]. We went out for sushi and saw some live musicians in New York City, and, overall, enjoyed ourselves. I was highly entertained by the stories she kept recounting about her name. The best of which was how her name went from Kazuno to Gonzo in less than three play-dates. Kazuno babysits three children. She had taken the kids to a play-date, and the stay- or work-from-home dad met her for the first time. Right from the get-go he called her Kozuno . She did not bother to correct him – she is very accustomed to it. The second time round he diverted from what had vaguely resembled her name to the dangerous-sounding and creature-like name (which I have adopted for myself) – Gonzo!

How did she deal with this new name of hers: “I didn’t even respond until I realised that he was talking to me,” she said laughing. She went on to say “I also volunteer at a pre-school during the day, and the teachers there don’t even bother trying to remember my name. They just call me Kate. Others caller me K.” I still had the giggles about Gonzo!

Last night I received a text message, and my phone reads them to me. The first thing I saw and heard from the familiar automated woman’s voice was “From Gonzo…” I could not help but crack up with laughter. After gathering myself from “rolling on the floor with laughter,” we texted back and forth for a bit. During this, she told me that while volunteering, one of the gentlemen at the pre-school tried his best to remember her name. The best he could come up with was Casino! This put me in a delicious state of hysteria. “Maybe I will be lucky in Las Vegas!”

She hopes that people don’t forget her real name now. However, when I called her Kazuno while waiting for the 1-train in New York, she paid me no attention. I hope Gonzo won’t evolve Gonzilla

Here are the Ting Tings with That’s Not My Name!

To All the Drivers Who Own Our Roads

“It’s what they teach you in New Jersey. It’s called Defensive Driving, which turns into being assertive driving, which turns into being a dick!”

I was conversing with a friend of mine yesterday evening about how repulsive and uppity some drivers are, and if you aren’t scanning through this post like a newspaper article, you will know what she said.

As a person who has driven on both the east- and west-coast of the States, as well as on the tax-infested South African roads, I have come across a numerous amount of these drivers. Taxi drivers in South Africa own the roads. There is no question about that. Anyone who has seen these drivers before taking the written/theory test will know to mentally alter the written rules when actually driving, in order to accommodate the road users. We yield to them no matter what. Or else all three of the taxis, spread out in front of you, will cut in front of you to get to the one person standing on the side of the road waiting for a friend. They will fill their dusty 15-seater combi-styled vans with 25 people and crawl in the fast lane. They will make that left turn over the curb just to pass the two cars in front of them (remember South Africa keeps left and passes right). Or simply curse you out for following traffic laws.

In the west-coast, driver are chill. Friendly, would be more accurate a term. Granted that they, like most people, get agitated when their patience is tried, as is the case for those of us who have experienced Seattle’s downtown gridlock and/or bottlenecks. The east-coast is plain vicious. Especially the female drivers. They aggressively maneuver their Stupid Urban Vehicles, take unnecessarily wide corners, and edge their noses (slowly, to my surprise) for left turns onto oncoming traffic. They later teach these unsavoury driving techniques to their Lexus-driving, sixteen year-old children who think they actually know what they are doing.

However, the creme-de-la-creme, the superlatives, are the ones who drive doing revolting things because they think nobody is looking, and those who are obnoxious in their cars but timid after they park them. I have one dedication to all terrible drivers. She sings it charmingly, but listen twice. Once to enjoy the song, and secondly, to what other road-users want to say.

Here is Lily Allen’s F**k You

Are we all in agreement polite and decent drivers?

Four-Leaf Clover

A sign of good fortune

“Legend has it that St. Patrick drove all the snakes from Ireland. Sometime back in the fifth century he stood on a hill, the story goes, and used a staff to herd the slithering creatures into the sea, banishing them for eternity.”

Loreto Queenswood is a Catholic school in Queenswood, Pretoria. It is also a convent and was founded by sister Mary Ward in the 17th century. It was at this school where I first discovered my musical interest. I was at Loreto from pre-school till the end of standard three – also known as grade five. One of my teachers, Mrs O’Carroll if I remember correctly, said that it was “good luck to find a four-leaf clover.” So naturally, me and my entire class of fifteen children walked slowly back from the school’s church, scouring the ground for four-leaf clovers. There was a lot of excited screaming, “I found one!”… “No, it’s mine! I saw it first! I’m gonna tell Mrs O’Carroll if you don’t give it back!”…”That’s not even a real clover!” Unfortunately, it turns out no one was that lucky. The kids who thought they had spotted a four-leafed clover were highly disappointed when they realised that the fourth leaf was what turned out to be a deformed, leaf-like creature among the authentic leaves. Others split one of their leaves’ indents to “create” their fourth leaf, thereby, creating their good fortune. Children!  I wonder what the 21-leaf clover – that set a record for the most leaves on a clover in 2008 – would bring?

The reason four-leaf clovers are considered a sign of good luck is because they are a rare variation of the popular three-leaf clover. Add to this fact that in legend, it is believed that Eve, the supposedly-seductive woman, “carried a four-leaf clover from the Garden of Eden.” The three-leaf clover, also known as the Shamrock, is a plant that belongs to the genus of the pea family, Fabaceae, that St Patrick used to explain the Holy Trinity. It is now the emblem of Ireland. Because of it’s close relation to St Patrick and it’s colour, St Patrick’s Day is now celebrated as a green day. Green ribbons and shamrocks were/are worn by the Irish to celebrate this day. For the rest of us that do not have time to search for three-leaf clovers, let alone four-leaf clovers, we will stick to our green t-shirts and green hats.

St Patrick was never canonised (Canonise: officially declare a person to be a saint) by a Pope because during his era, this official act took place “on the diocesan or regional level.” Local churches declared the holy people as saints. Read the Letter to the soldiers of Coroticus, that St Patrick wrote, to get an idea of his faith. Other than the two letters that St Patrick wrote himself – the Letter to the soldiers of Coroticus and the Declaration – very little evidence is available about St Patrick.

Substantiation or not, AD 460 March 17 is the day that is believed to be the day that St Patrick died. Let the revelry begin! Happy St Patrick’s Day. I will carry on with my search for a four-leaf clover…

Sources:

1. Why Ireland Has No Snakes

2. St. Patrick’s Letter to Coroticus

3. Ask a Franciscan: Saints Come From All Nations

4. 21-Leaf Clover Sets Record

5. Facts About Four-Leaf Clovers