walking, watching, listening, and trusting...

Yesterday we walked through Parc Lafontaine in the Plateau neighborhood of Montréal. We shared a late lunch lakeside accompanied by mallard ducks, seagulls, and cormorants. A few dedicated sunbathers lay on the hills soaking up as much warmth as possible before the weather turns harsh. And as evening arrived, we took in two smokin' Latin jazz sets at our beloved Dièse Onze under the leadership of Alex Bellegarde. Speaking with him during a break about the importance of live music, he said: the hardest thing about the pandemic for him as a performer (aside from the suffering and loss of life) was the absence of the energy created between an artist and those entering into the magic of the music. It was as isolating, lonely, and anguished 18 months that is only now slowly changing. 

Today is a slow, inward time for Di and myself as we write, take care of small administrative chores, and mostly rest after being so public and active beyond our habits. I will likely take a long solitary walk later just to feel the vibe of the city - and get a few goodies like TP and soap. Such is the rhythm we've embraced as flâneurs: we each need our own quiet time for physical and psychic space after wandering this world with awe and gratitude. Being older and a bit infirm adds to this reality, too. "To everything there is a season," yes? One of the gifts of this gentle trip is being cut off from the barrage of so-called "news" that has polluted so much of our North American culture. Even gasoline pumps now have TV screens blaring some upsetting headline at you with no OFF switch available. And as I learned six years ago while on sabbatical here, living in a Francophone area of town makes certain I listen more than speak and trust the silence ever more deeply. To be sure, we've been monk-like at home even before sheltering in place. Solitude and silence have long been our friends. But being in this part of town adds another layer of quietude that I have come to cherish.

After a simple monastic breakfast of tea and toast, I read a brilliant article by Ragan Sutterfield entitled, "Climate Change is a Symptom of Deeper Planetary Dysfunction" from The Christian Century. (check it out here: https://www.christiancentury.org/article/critical-essay/climate-change-symptom-deeper-planetary-dysfunction) It is an elegant invitation to humbly give up our anthropocentric worldview and habits:

We should seek to end fossil fuel use, divest our assets from companies that promote it, and invest in clean energy. We should replace our gas guzzlers with more efficient vehicles. We should quit flying whenever we have the whim to go someplace—we should make long-distance travel rare. We should do many of the things that have been promoted as responses to our climate crisis. But in all of this we must be under no illusions that this will mean the reconciliation of human life with the whole of crea­tion. Solar panels on every church rooftop will not be the healing we need. Instead, as with so many aspects of our broken world, the real healing of injustice comes through a long walk of humble mercy and the repentance that means changed hearts and lives.

He then suggests five inter-related embodied practices that have been time-tested as essential for living into the beauty of creation as a partner: withdrawal, geography, sanctuary, skill-sharing, and mercy. It is a rich and nuanced call to deepen what I am calling embodied trust so that from the inside out and within our bodies as well as the body politic healing happens:

The years ahead will be critical to the future of the life we have known on our planet. We need energy transitions, infrastructure changes, and much of what has become the standard response to the climate crisis. But that crisis is only a symptom of a disease that goes to the heart of the human relationship with creation. We must cut all of the carbon we can as quickly as we can. But we should seek to do so within a frame of healing the whole, of exorcising the demons of our dominion made manifest in industrial civilization. We should not build windmills at the expense of migrating birds. We should not trade carbon pollution for lithium waste. The world should suffer no more from human life beyond its creaturely limits.

On our walk home, I came upon this tiny reminder that in the midst of our pain, confusion, anger, and fear there is still the tender presence of the sacred for those with eyes to see. Right now Miles Davis et al are playing "All Blues" on our small portable sound system reminding me it's time to quit sitting in front of my computer and put on my walking shoes:

The sea, the sky, for you and I - I'll know we're all blues

All Shades, all hues, all blues

Some blues are sad but some are glad,

Dark-sad or bright-glad they're all blues

All shades, all hues, all blues

The color of colors the blues are more than a color

They're a moan of pain, a taste of strife

And a sad refrain a game which lief is playin'

Blues can be the livin' dues we're all a-payin'

Yeah, Oh Lord in a rainbow a summer day that's fair

A prayer is prayed a lament that's made... all blues