Music has always held a sacred place in our spiritual lives. Across cultures and centuries, from chants and hymns to tribal drums and whispered prayers, music has served as a bridge between the human and the divine. There’s a reason for this—something about the resonance of music reaches beyond words and thoughts, tapping directly into our souls.
Music has a way of expressing the inexpressible, of capturing the elusive, of giving voice to our innermost longings and hopes. It’s not just sound; it’s connection. When we hear a song that moves us, it stirs something ancient and universal within, aligning us with a force that transcends our day-to-day lives. Music, then, becomes a spiritual experience—not simply a melody, but a way of harmonizing with the deeper rhythms of life.
There’s a line from Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah that has haunted many of us: “Well, it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift…” It speaks of a “secret chord” that David played, one that “pleased the Lord.” And while the song weaves through themes of brokenness and redemption, there’s something about that “secret chord” that sticks, that resonates within the spaces of our own lives, even if we can’t fully define why.
In creating The Twin Tree Project, I’ve come to realize that my journey, like many of yours, is about seeking—seeking balance, seeking meaning, and seeking that sense of harmony between myself and my higher self. In the natural world, trees lean into each other for support, weathering the seasons side by side. The “twin trees” in my life reflect that same partnership between faith and doubt, light and dark. The “secret chord” is one we play not to unlock an answer, but to harmonize with our path, however discordant or uncertain it might be.
The Fourth and the Fifth: Searching for Balance
In music, as in life, certain patterns return to us, grounding us in something familiar. The “fourth” and “fifth” chords Cohen mentions are stable intervals, giving us a sense of structure. They show up again and again, holding the song together. In the same way, our lives have rhythms and cycles—seasons of growth, moments of stillness—that anchor us. These are the parts of ourselves we know, our foundations.
But stability isn’t always enough. Sometimes, like the “minor fall” and “major lift” Cohen describes, we’re pulled into experiences that challenge us, that break us open. These moments often bring both vulnerability and resilience, a rawness that awakens a part of us we didn’t know was there. It’s through these breaks and builds, these peaks and valleys, that we connect with something beyond ourselves.
The Minor Fall: Facing Our Shadows
The “minor fall” is that descent, that inevitable moment when life drags us into uncomfortable, uncertain places. We all have those moments when the world seems to dim, when faith feels fragile. This fall is not a failure—it’s an invitation to sit with our shadows, to listen to the silences between the notes. It’s in these silences that we find our own chords, played not for anyone’s approval, but simply to express the truth of where we are.
This is what The Twin Tree Project is meant to capture: the honesty of standing in that shadow, allowing the grief, the heartbreak, the uncertainty to exist without rushing to fill it with something more comfortable. The project is a testament to the idea that we’re never truly alone in our search for meaning, that even our doubts have a place among the branches, that each leaf—light or dark—contributes to the wholeness of the tree.
The Major Lift: Rising in Connection
In contrast, the “major lift” is that upward pull, that breath of fresh air, that glimmer of hope or faith that finds us when we least expect it. It’s not the kind of joy that dismisses our pain but one that sits beside it, acknowledging it. It’s the spark that reminds us, even for a moment, that there’s beauty in our brokenness. This lift doesn’t erase the minor fall, but it brings balance. It’s in those moments of connection—with nature, with ourselves, with one another—that we find ourselves lifted.
So perhaps the “secret chord” is less about finding an answer and more about learning to play our own notes, in our own time, no matter how imperfectly. It’s about leaning into the spaces between, the moments of silence, the spaces of sorrow, and the glimpses of light. It’s about learning to trust that even in our darkest nights, there’s a resonance—a song within us that, like the twin trees, grows stronger and more intertwined as we allow it to exist.
If you’re reading this, if you’ve ever felt the weight of the “minor fall” or the grace of the “major lift,” know that you’re not alone. In the quiet spaces of The Twin Tree Project, we are all part of this song, seeking the chords that please our souls, if not always the world around us. Together, we’re learning that the journey isn’t about playing perfectly—it’s about showing up, in tune or not, and letting our truth be heard.
The overall message (and magic) here is this: In every endeavor – whether it be music, or life – listen to the notes between the chords, those quiet places where faith, doubt, grief, and hope coexist. That, perhaps, is the true essence of the secret chord: not a single note or answer, but the courage to play in harmony with who we are, as we are, right here.
The Twin Tree Project 