singing the blues on the fourth...

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.

(Read it all @ https://poets.org/poem/let-america-be-america-again)

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.

(check it out here: https://www.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2021/07/04/fourth-of-july-indigenous-rights?)

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..