What is it about these in-between times? I love them. The hazy, mysterious dark greys of November (Samhain), the clarity of the winter sky after Christmas, the angle of light that breaks through the darkness at Imbolc and is liturgically marked by candles and crosses on St. Brigid's Day (February 1), the possibilities for bounty at Pentecost (Beltane on May 1), and Lughnassadh that ancient cross quarter day midway between the summer solistice and the autumnal equinox. Historically this is the feast of first fruits where the wheat harvest is brought in from the fields throughout the Northern Hemisphere. Olde English spoke of it as the "Loaves Mass" (lamas) as sheaves harvested in the morning became loaves of fresh bread for supper. The more I listen to the energy cycles that ebb and flow withiin me, the more Mother Nature helps me own my charisms as a child of the in-between seasons.
Mystics and others outside the status quo tend to favor the dominant and bold high holy days of the circular and/or Christian calendars. Our cycle of seasons is influenced by the wisdom and experience of the ancient Celts. At its best, this trajectory honors the feasts as well as the fasts of reality, the journies as well as the arrivals, the sowing alongside of the harvest. To be sure, popular culture is still shaped by our major feasts: Christmas (Yule), Easter (the spring equinox of Ostara), the start of summer's fertility rites in May (as in the May poles of Beltane or the picnics that mark the arrival of summer vacations over Memorial Day), and then summer's finale as September slips into both Labor Day in early September or Mabon (September 21). These feast days are beloved but I somehow resonate more with the cross quarter days that invite us to notice the "thin places" and the in-between times.
For the better part of this month I've stepped away from public reflection. It was simply time to be in the garden, wander with my family in Montréal, care for my loved ones, and be still. As i look out of my study window tonight, the clouds are pink. The fairy lights are all in place. And I sense it is time to reconnect. I will cut grass tomorrow - and then bake bread. I haven't given time to the spirituality of bread baking for the whole pandemic. It was enough to stay safe and reasonably healthy. Now, despite the surge of covid variants (and the uncertainties of monkey pox), I feel the urge to make safe, loving, creative connections again. The new/old band will regroup. and play another house party at the end of this month. A new musical duet will start to practice - and work to get some local gigs, too. And I will share my bread - and prayers as Small is Holy returns to live streaming next Sunday @ 4 pm - with those who are open to receiving these simple gifts. Apparently, I experience insight and even a bit of transformation during these in-between times. Small wonder I've always cherished this tune...
It is always humbling - and sometimes restorative - to find that practicing what you preach is still a work in progress. On my spiritual direction web site, Be Still and Know (https://www.be-still-and-know.net) I posted the following:Af
After 40 years of ordained ministry - 30 of which included working with individuals and groups in spiritual direction - the time was right to start Be Still and Know. With so many leaving organized religion I wanted to encourage individuals on their path into sacred wisdom. Douglas Steere put it well: "To listen another's soul into a condition of disclosure and discovery may be almost the greatest service that any human being ever performs for another." The Reverend Dr. Cynthia Bouregault has said that "the goal of our spiritual practices is to empower us to live as low maintenance, gentle souls in this harsh world." I couldn't agree more.
I whole-heartedly stand by these words: listening deeply to another is holy ground that can help us become "low maintenance, gentle souls" living in this harsh world. AND... there are still times when those old, inner demons of self-pitiy and resentment reach up from some place deep within, grab me by the throat, and chase away any connection to the contemplative equinimity I strive to rest in. Two of my favorite Bible passages from Matthew 11: 28-30 and I Corinthians 13 speak to the longing, the promise, the reality, and the renewal.
“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”
+
Love never gives up.
Love cares more for others than for self.
Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.
Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always “me first,”
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,
Puts up with anything,
Trusts God always,
Always looks for the best,
Never looks back,
But keeps going to the end...
When I was an infant at my mother’s breast, I gurgled and cooed like any infant. When I grew up, I left those infant ways for good. We don’t yet see things clearly. We’re squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won’t be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We’ll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us! But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.
I am currently awakening to a way of being that others call embodied prayer. In the days and weeks ahead, there will be more to say, but this short reflections cuts to the chase.
“Grandma, how do you cope with pain?” “With your hands, honey. If you do it with your mind instead of relieving the pain, it toughens even harder.” “With your hands grandma?” “Yes, our hands are the antennae of our soul. If you move them; knitting, cooking, painting, playing or sinking them into the ground, you send care signs to the deepest part of you and your soul lights up because you’re paying attention to it. Then signs of pain will no longer be necessary.” “Hands are really that important?”
“Yes my daughter. Think of babies: they start to know the world through the touch of their hands. If you look at the hands of old people, they tell you more about their life then any body part. Everything that is done by hand is said to be done with the heart. Because it’s really like this: hands and heart are connected. Masseurs know well: when they touch someone with their hands, they create a deep connection. It is precisely from this connection that healing comes. Think of lovers: when they touch their hands, they make love in a more sublime way.” “My hands grandma.... how long I haven’t used them like this!” “Move them, my love. Begin to create with them and everything within you will begin to move. The pain will not pass away. And instead what you do with them will become the most beautiful masterpiece and it won’t hurt anymore. Because you have been able to transform its essence.” ~Elena Bernabe (Translated by Takiruna)
As the world we once knew continues to burn, our bought and paid for politicians waffle, obfuscate, and out-right lie to creation and the Creator. Many of us feel desperately lost and even callously discarded. There are loved ones among us who act out in their terror while others retreat into distractions, addictions or pettiness. I want to consciouslly choose to see this time of despair, pain, and collapse as one filled with possibilities. The suffering is real and horrific. At the same time, we KNOW how to heal and restore Mother Earth. We KNOW what is required to both eliminate mass murder and one-on-one gun violence to say nothing of what must take place so that those most likely to kill find a way into safety, community, and the possibility of healing. We KNOW how to prioritize compassion rather than greed and balance instead of busyness. We KNOW how to do all of this and so much more. What we don't seem to know is how to listen: to the still, small voice of the sacred within, to those who are loud and threatening, to our lovers, children, or neighbors.
The Scottish psychiatrist, R.D. Laing, reclaimed the words of ancient Israel's prophet Amos who prophesied that there would come a time of worldwide famine, not for bread or physical sustenance, but rather for hearing the words of life. (Amos 8) We are living into those sacred words. It is my conviction that we need one another in pursuit of befriending the silence. We each have a part to play in creation's renewal. But most of the time we can't hear what is most true within our hearts. We need the words and the wisdom of others to help us reclaim our deepest gift. Emily Rose Protor put it beautifully in her poem about two Biblical sisters: Mary and Martha.
Martha knows the dinner will not cook itself. Mary feels the moment swiftly passing.
Martha knows each thing has its place. Mary notices how each thing changes with the light.
Martha knows a word from him would change things. Mary turns the words like honeyed almonds in her mouth.
Martha knows the kitchen turned temple, The pot of stew a thurible, filling every empty space. Mary listens with a thirst that frightens her For something that makes no sound. — Emily Rose Procter, “To each her own”
It's Sunday morning in Montréal where, once again, I've been invited to practice letting go of my expectations and embrace what is real. This is fundamentally the wisdom path for the second half of life. We get clues earlier, however, and for me it began some 30 years ago as my first marriage came to a close. Feeling like a failure - and grieving the loss of my precious family - my spiritual director encouraged me to learn how to simply rest into God's loving hands. Don't think too much, don't try too hard: give it time and before you know it you will "know" from the inside out that no matter what you do or who you are, you are always God's beloved. Fr. Jim was right. After about seven weeks of consistently sitting quietly and waiting on the Lord, I "felt" myself enveloped by the sacred and "knew" I was loved. My outward life was still a shambles, but inwardly I knew a deeper love.
Three decades later I am still a novice at living into this wisdom with one exception: now I know that it's true. How does Job put it at the close of his lament? "Once I had only heard of you with my ears, but now (the eyes of my heart) see you and I lcan et go of all my previous expectations." (Job 42 with my emphasis) The Americana musician and record producing genius, T. Bone Burnett, calls this the sacred "trap door."
Fr. Richard Rohr, teaches that when we're fully into "the second half of life," it's crucial to befriend disappointment. And Brother Niebuhr tells us this in his Prayer for Serenity:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
Living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time;
accepting hardship as a pathway to peace;
taking, as Jesus did, this (broken) world as it is, not as I would have it;
trusting that You will make all things right if I surrender to Your will;
so that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with You forever in the next.
The good news is NO ONE is automatically good at befriending disappointment. The more we get it wrong, the more we know we need to move in a new direction. The paradox of this spirituality asks us to realize that our wounds and dashed expectations can simultaneously become our spiritual director. Falling through the sacred trap door is both death AND new life.Henri Nouwen speaks of embodied resurrection succinctly:
The great conversion in our life is to recognize and believe that the many unexpected events are not just disturbing interruptions in our projects, but the way in which God molds our hearts and prepares us for his return. Our great temptations are boredom and bitterness. When our good plans are interrupted by poor weather, our well-organized careers by illness or bad luck, our peace of mind by inner turmoil, our hope for peace by a new war, our desire for a stable government by a constant changing of the guards, and our desire for immortality by real death, we are tempted to give in to a paralyzing boredom or to strike back in destructive bitterness. But when we believe that patience can make our expectations grow, then fate can be converted into a vocation, wounds into a call for deeper understanding, and sadness into a birthplace of joy.
This Montréal adventure is our chance to befriend going slow. It's asking us to honor our disappointments even as we grieve them trusting that if we watch and wait, they will help us discern new ways of living. Not as we expected nor as we have lived in the past: but fully alive in THIS moment. A week ago at this time, I was in the emergency room with a blockage in my esophagus that scared the crap out of me. Today I am sitting in a lovely second floor kitchen looking out at the summer flowers of my favorite city. Di and I have journeyed to Montréal many times before - and the holy is whispering to us that this trip will be different whether we like it or not. So why not befriend it? These days I know this in my head but still resist it in my heart and flesh - and reality is showing me that my abstract beliefs need to become incarnated. Lutheran pastor, the Rev. Mindy Roll, learned much earlier than I what embodied prayer and faith is all about. In an article she crafted for The Christian Century she notes that:
Sometimes embodied prayer uncovers joy, sometimes sorrow, sometimes peace, sometimes connection, sometimes strength, sometimes my own history, and sometimes nothing. I am still learning the practice, still surprised each time at the intimacy of God’s presence and the sanctuary that God has carved within. It turns out God was indeed in the business of speaking back; I just needed to discover how to listen. (Check out the full article @ https://www.christiancentury.org/article/first-person/how-i-came-love-embodied-prayer)
Roll's description of how to move from the head into our flesh is instructive. Her spiritual director put it like this:
God lives in the deepest parts of you, deeper even than your thinking, she would tell me. She outlined the process: We would begin with a period of deep breathing, followed by a body check-in (letting my attention wander from my head to my feet, checking in at each space). She would then invite me to listen to where my attention was drawn, then to listen for an emotion, then to listen for a story (not telling a story or analyzing a story, as I was first prone to do, but simply listening to what comes). The process would end with a period of reflection, holding the question, How might God be speaking to you through that story?
The journey continues, yes? Di and I are entering a wholly new was of being - and travelling - and caring for one another. Our lives now are so wildly different from what they were even a year ago let alone 30+. Like those mystical mentors in the Grateful Dead insist: what a long, strange (and transformative) trip it's been. Thanks be to God.
Over and again, I find new evidence every time we're in Montréal that ordinary people can change the world. Well, ok, not the WORLD, but at least a significant number of real lives. (That is my experience with L'Arche, too but that's a story for another post.) Let me confess from the outset that this is probably true any and almost anywhere. I simply find that my eyes see more examples of people acting upon issues that matter the most to me more here than many other places. Yesterday, for example, we met a young woman from Les Filles Fattoush. (Check them out @
+ First, fattoush: I LOVE fattoush. For the non-cognescenti, fattoush is a Middle
Eastern salad made with with lettuce, cilantro, cucumbers, tomatoes, summac, and pita chips all coated in a tangy usually oil and vinegar, dressing. To be sure, I didn't grow up eating it. As a New England boy of the 50's and 60's, it was frozen fish sticks and potatoes all the way for my family. I never had pizza until junior high! But seminary in NYC opened my eyes and taste buds to street food. So when we moved to Saginaw, MI, I quickly made friends with a Lebanese shop owner who ran a small falafel eatery. His hummus - with LOTS of tahini - became my prefered lunch and the gold standard for evaluating the effort of others. In time, he turned me on to other Middle Eastern specialties made to order for a hard core vegetarian. Just as I made a commitment to try out both carne asada (after I'd left the veggie world after 25 years) and/or cheese chilie rellenoes whenever visiting a new Mexican resturant, so, too hummus and fattoush. Some of the vendors in Istanbul did it up right for me; and Sahadi's in Brooklyn always satisfies. Not so much the mass produced versions found in most Anglo supermarkets. So, upon retirement, I learned to make a killer fattoush that brings a smile to my face. Any place celebrating this working class delicacy warrants my time - and we brought home some fattoush pommegrant dressing and hummus.
+ Second, les Filles: The sisters in French. Whose sisters? Was this a feminist cabal of Middle Eastern salad devotees? What was their story? Well, it seems they are a creative collective of refugee women transplants from Syria collaborating with their Quebecois sisters in a celebration of the cuisine of Syria. Together these women are creating a cultural and economic gift to the region that simultaneously integrates these new citizens into the fabric of society, gives them essential skills in a competitive marketplace, and shares the sensual wonder of Syrian cooking with a wider audience. They write on their website:
Syrian women face the same difficult social, cultural, and economic obstacles that every refugee confronts upon arrival in Canada. Les Filles Fattoush gives these newly arrived women a significant opportunity to integrate into Quebec society: a job that puts their culinary talents to use, at the same time allowing them to earn a living and build a social network. This job is not only a first step towards reestablishing their dignity, but it also creates exchanges, both between these women and with their clients. The result is mutually beneficial: everyone gives and everyone receives. In the global diaspora, refugee communities risk losing their cultural heritage. Les Filles Fattoush addresses this issue constructively: with a collective work effort that creates relationships, builds self-esteem, and profits women, their families, and the community. New opportunities are discovered by word of mouth, but also by meetings and conversations between Syrian women and Canadians: this helps them to showcase their skills besides those in the kitchen. Among the first Filles Fattoush employees, we have fitness instructors, lawyers, journalists -- women from diverse, professional backgrounds. This unique workplace gives women a chance to integrate into life in a new society. There is no universal solution. Social and economic obstacles will always be present, but Les Filles Fattoush is a creative, innovative project that helps to overcome these obstacles.
+ And third Syria: We were preparing to assist Syrian refugees in our small Massachusetss community when the Trump regime pulled the plug on that act of human compassion. Di had already committed time and resources to train and be certified in a top notch English as Another Language program and yearned to take the next step. She loves - and I value - small, grassroots women's collectives that welcome, support, encourage, and resource immigrant women into the realities of contemporary North American life. Les Filles Fattoush does this with aplumb and has piqued our interest. We will stop by their stand later this week and see how we might go deeper with them as a part of this journey.
Living in our small, semi-rural community has a host of blessings including good friends, natural beauty, an excellent health care network, and reasonable shops. There's also a downside to living outside of a progressive metropolitan area that includes limitted resources, diversity, and even political creativity. Our visits to Montréal makes what's missing clear to both of us as does stepping outside the USA for a spell. That's why today we'll hit a street food fair before joining the closing of this year's Jazz Fest with The Roots - as wel let the adventure continue!
This may seem too self-referential for some but here goes: one of the reasons I LOVE spending time in our beloved Montréal - besides the culture, arts, beauty, great food, jazz, and chill vibe is the disadvantage I experience as an old dude with only a minimalist ability in the French language. Put positiviely, I marvel and honor the radical bi-lingualism of the city's Francophone majority (same, too, for the bilingual Anglophones.) I grieve that I don't have that ability but revel in their incredible linguistic flexability. Intellectually and emotionally I know that facility in more than one language creates a way of being in the world that sees/comprehends possibilities. One size does NOT fit all. There is more fluidity between the right and left side of the brain and creativity abounds. Once upon a time I had some of this happening with Spanish, but that is mostly gone now, too. What I am trying to say is that wandering the streets of Montréal, trying to engage the citizens in questions and sometimes even a conversation in French, is not only humbling but evokes a measure of vulnerability within, too. And vulnerability is holy ground - especially for a white, cisgendered, bourgois American male. To date, my Francophone sisters and brothers have helped me ripen into old age in a few unexpected ways:
+ First, they remind me that I am not the center of the universe.As a man of modest privilege raised in the USA, it is second nature to act like the proverbial "Ugly American." I am used to getting what I want (most of the time), when I want it. And when that doesn't happen I can easily feel deprived or even oppressed. (Read the wise op ed in today's NY Times by David Brooks about what motivates mass shooters @ https://www.nytimes.com/2022/07/07/opinion/mass-shooters-motive.html ) Choosing to be vulnerable, however, opens my heart and eyes to the reality of others. I'm not saying it is simple or easy to walk the path of downward mobility. It isn't. It's just transformative. It creates space to change and go deeper. And make room for others, too. As a recent FB meme put it:
May we release the myth of independence and make a declaration to embrace and nourish our interdependence. May we pledge allegiance to the land, to the waters, to our human and nonhuman kin, to the earth-body we call home. May we find our house of worship in the trees, the sky, the dirt, the mountains, in our own bodies. May we find new places of power, shimmering along the edges of what we think is the only way forward. May we love each other and honor life more than we love guns, oil, money, power, control, or the written word of hungry ghosts. May we midwife systems of harm to die with grace, and compost them into new ways of caring for each other. May we honor our grief, make space for deep rest, find pleasure in our pursuit for justice, and ignite transformation with our holy rage.
+ Second, their willingness to help me learn new words is all about compassion and our interconnectedness as living beings rather than dominance.Last night, after a long day of travel, Di and I walked through the fecund beauty of le marché Jean-Talon, the fresh food farmer's market in Little Italy (our current neighborhood.) After any measure of travel, I find it grounding to simply walk around the area both to get my bearings but also take in the vibe. This is a wildly diverse community populated by every stripe of humanity you might imagine. After a simple supper of Mexican street food, we went in search of some libation and breakfast supplies. The local depaneur (convenience store) gave up the ghost during Covid, so we wound up a few blocks away on Boulevard St. Laurent. Di was wiped out and sat out my quest along one of the many traffic free pedestrian walkways that are family/handicap friendly. I found a new (to me) upscale market, gathered my goodies, and stepped up to the counter only to be gently reminded en français that the line formed behind me where five other shoppers were patiently waiting. I apologized, took my place sheepishly, and waited my turn. When my turn arrived, the young female clerk told me (first in French and then in English): "Don't sweat it. That happens all the time." She smiled knowingly and made space for an old, tired Anglophone in a French neighborood. Over and over this happens to me: there is space for us all when we take one another into account. Ever try this in the US? As a non-native speaker? Believe me, it is NOT something you want to experience. Hell, you could get yourself shot! A quote from jazz pianast, McCoy Tyner, gets it right as he describes his approach to making music together:
I like people to be comfortable. That’s the first thing I think about. Will people playing with me be comfortable and compatible? That’s very important. It’s a good place to start. I also like to provide enough room so the person is comfortable to do what they do. I don’t like to handcuff people. But at the same time, he’s got to understand that when he’s playing with me, he also has to listen. Listening and responding are very important.
+ And third, their respectful interactions push me towards greater generousity.When I was very young - and all through high school - I had some anger management issues. Over time I've learned to let go of a lot, but I still need encouragement to be my best self. Living, breathing, shopping, walking around, and watching others helps me practice waiting which is, in my worldview, the foundation of generousity. It's why we practice contemplation. It's at the heart of true religion. And it's built into the rhythms of Mother Nature, music, authentic conversations, and loving relationships. Maya Angelou told us: "I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." I believe that grace ALWAYS trumps karma, but that doesn't mean karma isn't real. St. Paul hit a home run in Romans 12 when he defined spiritual worship as embodied waiting:
So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for God. Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what the holy wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you.
Like travel guru, Rick Steves, tells us: “I would like travelers, especially American travelers, to travel in a way that broadens their perspective, because I think Americans tend to be some of the most ethnocentric people on the planet." In addition to my time as an Anglo organizer with the farm workers union founded by Cesar Chavez, my first trip to then Soviet Russian and Eastern Europe opened me to the challenges Steves described. We were 50 so-called peace activists. While in Poland during Marshall Law, however, I saw my gentle colleagues explode with rage when told that given food rationing and shortages there would only be one cup of coffee each morning - and no sugar. The words, complaints, and attitudes would have led you to believe we'd just been stripped of our right to vote! Ugly Americans, indeed. So, thank you now, and thank you always, Montréal: as long as I can travel I'll return.
Life and time are such precious and fleeting gifts, yes? I discovered this truth yet again on my 70th birthday. It started out sweet, filled with a French toast breakfast on our deck, some gardening and planning for a few additions, and a wee trip to the grocery store for our evening feast. I've had a "jones" to join the entourage of Dead fans for the past month, so I subscribed to a Zoom concert of the gig in Boston. At 7 pm we settled in for a sunroom birthday party as I sat in the comfort of our home near my sweetheart but in the company of some 10,000 die hard "Mass-hole" Deadheads.
It all started to go South, however, when Mother Nature interupted the concert with 60 minutes of rain, wind (but no snow) that shut down the performance after a mere two songs. I cooked up that evening's repast of baked potato, broiled steak, and salad only to be interupted five minutes into the feast with a choking attack. Some 20 years ago I had my first encounter with the malady once called "Steakhouse syndrome" now named "Schatkski's Ring." It's the result of prolongued GERD - a genetic demon shared by many of the Irish side of our clan - resulting in a small "scar" ring forming at the top of the esophagus. My docs tell me that when "the acidic contents of the stomach enter the esophagus it causes an irritation resulting in heartburn. Prolonged irritation of the esophagus due to acid reflux often results in Schatzki ring formation." Fiften years ago it was diagnosed - treated with diet, proton pump inhibitors, and dialation of the esophagus along with SMALL bites of food - and periodic review. This combination has inhibited problems and life has been full - except during this year's birthday feast! I will spare the gory details of angony, fear, and pain except to say that after about an hour some of the blockage had been eliminated. But, sadly, not all. So, for the next 17 hours swallowing became impossible. I toughed it out all night because I didn't want to go endure the madness of the ER at midnight on a Saturday during the 4th of July weekend. What discrete circle of Hell would that be? Certainly far worse than my troubles.
Sunday morning, at 8:30 am, however, we made the trek and some six hours later I was free, healthy, sore, and worn out. Tasting that first vanilla malt was heavenly - and made my ragged throat smile, too given the fact that I needed a breathing tube this time during the surgery. Let me state again (and will do so in an upcoming letter to the editor of our local paper) how INCREDIBLY sweet, helpful, compassionate, engaging, honest, funny, professional, and tender the entire staff at Berkshire Medical Center was to both Di and myself. Everyone made the time to listen carefully, answer all our question, joke about the situation, reveal some of their own stories, and generally treat us with the tenderness and respect all human being ache to know when we're hurting. I cannot thank them enough.
After twelve uninterrupted hours of sweet sleep, we sat out on the deck for a Fourth of July bowl of Irish oatmeal with maple syrup. We laughed, watched the gold finches partake of the sunflowers, and watered the herbs. Later we'll weed the "lower 40" vegetable garden and probably chill some more. It's amazing how wearying it is to endure even such minor trauma. Well, enough of this prelude: it is Independence Day in the once (and maybe future) land of the brave and home of the free. Langston Hughes got it right in his 1936 poem, "America Never Was Amercia to Me." I discovered it (never having been taught it existed) during my last year of seminary in 1980.) He captures powerfully the promise, paradox, and problem of our nation with both love and anger.
Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.
(America never was America to me.)
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There’s never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)
Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?
I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.
I remember reading in his autobiography of Pete Seeger's broken-hearted realization that his all time favorite Woody Gutherie song, "This Land is Your Land" was not as universally revered by all Americans as he once believed. It was during the Kent State deomonstration of 1970. After leaving a public rally where he sang this anti-elitist anthem - Woody's protest against the sentimentallity of Irving Berlin's (aka his original Russian name: Israel Baline) song we know as "God Bless America" - as the campus ROTC building was set aflame, some First Nations people confessed to Seeger that his old, sing-a-long favorite was NOT cherished among indigenous people - and was probably hated as well by many non-white people of every state of life. Seeger wrote that he was genuinely humbled and devasted and wept over his cultural blindness. He quit singing this song for a few years until he (and probably Arlo) figured out a way to expand the anthem to become more inclusive.
So as I mark the national birthday of my homeland, there is much more sorrow and anger in my heart than ever before. The stability that once seemed timeless to me is unravelling - and it should. Injustice must be dismantled befire a more perfect union is brought to birth. But, as in nature, before the birthing must come the grief, decay, and dying. The promise God set in motion for those with eyes to see happens every seaon in the wisdom, intimacy, and affection Mother Nature shares with us: new life is part of this sacred cycle. But it never comes without a cost and we are living into the reckoning. As noted elsewhere, it is going to worse - much, much worse for us all - before it gets better. At the same time, there are souls wiser than myself who are prefiguratively living into this new world with strength, vulnerability, a measure of humility, and courage. Jade Begay, Diné and Tesuque Pueblo of New Mexico filmmaker, communications and narrative strategist and Indigenous rights and climate activist, sets the stage insighfully writing:Today is Independence Day—an acknowledgement of White settlers gaining their freedom from British colonizers in 1776. Many people now recognize the hypocrisy of July 4, after learning about the enslavement, exploitive labor, theft, and genocide of countless Black, Brown, and Indigenous people who have not reaped—and still do not reap—the benefits of this same freedom. Still, many Americans will put aside their conflicting feelings to enjoy the paid day off from work with parades and cookouts. This fraught holiday is a time to reflect on the lessons we’ve collectively learned over the past year, holding close the truth that we need each other to survive and to thrive. Today, we need to decry the continued colonization of the United States, reject the American ideal of individualism, and continue building systems that strengthen our relationships with each other and with the planet.
The past year and a half has shown us the real priorities of our federal government, when it failed miserably to protect people during a pandemic and the subsequent economic fallout, but was swift to mobilize military troops against people demanding accountability for horrific police killings. Because of these compounding layers of crisis and violence, people had to work quickly to protect one another.This culmination of events has led to a broader wave of consciousness around how White supremacy and capitalism work in tandem. And it has led to a greater willingness for different communities to come together to keep people safe. We need to recognize that interdependence is essential.
Having studied - and honored - the transformative spirituality of the prophets of ancient Israel(especially as unpacked by Brother Walter Brueggemann) I know that before there is space for new life both the old ways must be rendered dead and then grieved. Without grieving - personal and public lament - the emotional baggage and scars retain their presence and power. So, for me and those I love, the Fourth of July is more about tears than fire works. I'm listening to my kin sing reels and ballads from the old country as part of my lament. I am also now giving myself to singing and sharing more songs of beauty and the blues. It is my small gift of joy to the world Like Begay observes: Sometimes crisis can bring about opportunities for transformative action. "The past (two+) years have proven we are capable of meeting great challenges with humility and innovation. If we continue to strengthen the systems we’ve built, we can expand them even further. Let’s take this time to reflect on the lessons we’ve learned and encourage even more people to join us in building sustainable systems that actually work, instead of trying to reform broken systems that continually fail us."
Smacking up against my own mortality as I did this weekend (one more time!) was a timely kick in the pants to stay the course. I am off to do some weeding, physically in my garden and inwardly in my heart, on this broken/ugly/and holy day. I'm not singing either "God Bless American" or "This Land is Your Land" today. More like this lament and prayer from the Boss..
For the past few weeks THIS song has been swimming in and out of my head: it shows up in my dreams, when I am working in the yard, and while trying to stay focused on the PBS Newshour.
The lyrics, by the late Robert Hunter, were originally his hommage to Janis Joplin. Brother Jerry Garcia of blessed memory crafted the trippy and dream-like music. In the new Dead and Company fronted by Bobby Weir and John Mayer, it is performed in an even slower groove than the original.
All I know is something like a bird Within her sang All I know she sang a little while And then flew on Tell me all that you know I'll show you snow and rain
If you hear that same sweet song again Will you know why? Anyone who sings a tune so sweet Is passin' by Laugh in the sunshine, sing Cry in the dark, fly through the night Don't cry now, don't you cry Don't you cry anymore, la, la, la, la Sleep in the stars, don't you cry Dry your eyes on the wind, la, la, la, la
If you hear that same sweet song again Will you know why? Anyone who sings a tune so sweet Is passin' by Laugh in the sunshine, sing Cry in the dark, fly through the night
Don't cry now, don't you cry Don't you cry anymore, la, la, la, la Sleep in the stars, don't you cry Dry your eyes on the wind, la, la, la, la
All I know is something like a bird Within her sang All I know she sang a little while And then flew off Tell me all that you know I'll show you snow and rain
This summer - and especially in the days leading up to today's 70th birthday - the song AND the Dead have awakened a mystical, musical urgency within me. Not an obsession, mind you. I've done obsession before and know the difference. No, this is more like stumbling upon an unoffiliated Celtic monk, a vagaran, heeding the call of the road to wander in search of her/his place of resurrection. The song's musical changes - as well as its poignant lyrics and improvisational intensity - speak to my heart in a new/old way. I hear order and chaos, wandering and focus, beauty and dissonance, sorrow and celebration, freedom and structure in pursuit of the spirit all going on at once. It's like an audible Hopi or Tibetan sand mandala: here for a moment of delicate elegance and then gone forever. In a word, "Bird Song" sounds like how I want to live: open to the possibilities of the moment, grounded in the alternative wisdom of compassion rather than the market, all in pursuit of tender solidarity. It's what I've started to practice and call embodied prayer.
Once upon a time, theologian Tex Sample wrote that the world often becomes more livable for those taking-in a Dead concert: anything goes and people are more open with one another (in part because they're high but also because they're consciously seeking the fullness of life in this moment.) That's been my experience over the years. And moving back into this alternative groove feels a bit like a blessing and a type of prefigurative resistance designed to fortify my heart against the cruelty of our contemporary brokedown palace. I said to Di this morning at breakfast, "The Dead create an alternative universe when they play - a bold and creative encounter that is so different from the one we're living in right now - it's like going on a retreat that feeds all your senses." Some look at these events as escapist. No doubt that's true in part, but it's never the whole enchilada for this is a sacramental groove that incarnates a kinder, gentler way of being if only for a few hours. It is a way of being that I want to celebrate more fully as this new year around the sun unfolds for me. Like St. Paul said in Romans 12: "Here's what I want you to do, with God's help, present your whole body to the world as a living sacrifice."
Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you. (Peterson's The Message version)
I think the new version of "Sugaree" captures the spiritual nuances that I want to reclaim in my soul this year: shake it, shake it, Sugaree. There's a quiet ecstasy to this song that transcends my wounds. I heard it the first time inside a small tent at Watkins Glenn in the summer of '72. After a torrential rain storm drove the gathering tribes into our tents for a few hours, the Dead came out at the end of the deluge for a sound check. The combination of the sun peeking through the darkness to the early strains of "Sugaree" lit a fire within me that continues to burn. To be sure, there've been times when I felt disconnected or lost. But as St. John like to say:
What came into existence was Life, and the Life was Light to live by. The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness; and the darkness couldn’t put it out.
This lazy and playfully ragged version just oozes attitude - not in a crass, cranky, or snarky way - just pure funky joy. I can't help but smile when I hear "Sugaree." It starts with that bluesy rock shuffle, adds some Garcia/Mayer guitar licks that meander around the melody before heading for outer space, softly slides into the verse before welcoming us all into the chorus: shake it, shake it, Sugaree. It gets downright inspirational, too when the last verse invites us into the Jubilee. It may only last as long as the concert, but Jubilee is the restoration of creation and human relations based upon compassion and justice. Isaiah 63 and Luke 4 cut to the chase:
Jesus stood up to read from the scroll of the prophet Isaiah that was given to him. He unrolled the scroll and found the place where it was written: "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. God has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed and proclaim the year (Jubilee) and the Lord’s favor.” When he was finished, he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant, and sat down. The eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him so he began to say to them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.
Like I said, it's prefigurative embodied prayer in all the right ways and I can't help but shake my booty EVERY time I hear it. One last thought: Bobby Weir has now refigured this band as Dead AND Company. When brother Jerry od'd on heroin while in rehab back in 1995, it looked like shakedown street was cooked and over for the Grateful Dead. Twenty years later, however, Weir pulled together some of the original band (both drummers), found two new groove masters (on keyboards and bass) and welcomed in the NEW gun in town on lead guitar: John Mayer. As I take in the way these cats remake the old tunes, turning them inside out and upside down before reframing them with precise abandon, I experience creativity in a genuinely intergenerational key. Take a look the crowds who gather for these Dead happernings. They are equally intergenerational. And watching old man Weir (who used to be the young pretty boy of the band) hold down center stage in all his white-haired, Zen bodisatva glory as he stands alongside the new pretty, bad boy Mayer, is a vision of today that I need to see more often. It looks and sounds like trust to me - and that's something I need to see more of as this year unfolds. Take a listen as the boys sing: God DAMN but I declare: have you seen the light? Yes, yes, yes, and it makes me want to SHAKE it, Sugaree!
