a sacred safe space born of music...

What to say about playing yesterday's music party? Well, first up, is my profound gratitude for my band mates. They were/are sublime. 

And while we still don't have a band name - can't help but think of Question Mark and the Mysterions of "96 Tears" fame - we clearly have a groove: the marriage of blue-eyed soul and sweet folk-rock harmonies as if the Rascals partnered with the Wailin' Jennys. Yesterday we played a few eclectic sets that combined punk and blues, soaring piano driven ballads alongside acoustic high lonesome laments, kick-ass rockers with  tongue-in-cheek country take-downs of Christian fundamentalism with a few pop tunes thrown in for good measure. As I listened late last night to a modest video of the gig, I was stunned by our harmonic precision as well as the wild instrumental abandon that periodically broke into the moment to pump-up an already energized sharing...

... that word sharing is vital: we're more of a call and response ensemble that evokes a lively give-and-take energy between artists and party-goers than a take it or leave it show band. For me, the word "performance" is inadequate and incomplete because we seek to engage those who gather with us in a reciprocal encounter with joy, playfulness, trust, and respect. That is to say, our music is NOT about passively receiving a product. These small gigs are NOT about consumerism in any way, shape, or form. Rather, they're about being fully in the moment by opening our hearts together to see where the Spirit might lead us. There's laughter and tears. Some story-telling, poetry, and musical improvisation, too. And while it ain't church - that would be way too small for this moment in time - it IS sacred. It's shared sacred safe space beyond the confines of labels and limits that simultaneously links joy with the grit of living into the 21st century. I think of our events as a meeting place born of music that offers those who gather both a bit of beauty alongside a few hours of encouragement. Yesterday's host said to me while we were packing up: You just gave this group a gift; being together to sing, dance, clap, weep, laugh and listen lifted us beyond our woes for a short time. But not as escapism. More like a reprieve or a retreat before heading back out on the journey life has set before us. 

Another thought I have about what we shared together has to do with size: while we use technology to create as much beauty as possible, it's important for us to do this in a modest setting. We have to be able to see, hear, and interact with those who gather lest the event become yet one more commodity to be purchased and then discarded. E.F. Schumacher continues to be right: small IS beautiful. And essential for sharing beauty with real people who have been anxious, afraid, and isolated in various ways for nearly three years. Proximity matters. It prefigures as well as communicates why we do what we do: being a band is NOT just about having fun - although that's crucial - no, our band wants to reconnect people in our community with one another again. We're sadly out of practice. It's not an exaggeration to say that culturally, spiritually, politically, ecologically, and even economically we've been wounded of late. The Rev. Dr. Lauren Artress quotes Parker Palmer in her little book, The Path of the Holy Fool, when he said that, "the heart of the spiritual quest is to know the rapture of being alive." She goes on to add: 

In all of its many forms, wounding takes away this rapture. It deadens our bodies, and ultimately robs us of the joy of being alive. It crushes the hope of a productive, active future and can set our imagination into endless repetition that prevents true healing... none of us escapes some form of wounding. We live in the human body; suffering, and injury happen. Rather than be victimized by it, however, our life task is to transform the wound so that it can serve as an initiatrory rite of passage into spiritual maturity. We have to be wounded just enough to bring us to our knees, so that the depts of our being can crack open, expanding our awarenss of who we long to be.

Through covid, the world at war, the ascent of white Christian nationalism, and the bitter brutalities of Western culture in general: many of us in 2022 feel wiped out. We rightfully mistrust most of our institutions. We yearn for a "balm in Gilead" - a salve that might help us heal our brokenness - because we're exhausted. Worn out and anxious. The old ways have outlived their usefulness. They bore us to tears and frustrate our souls. Dr. Artress observes that once again we're living into the metaphor of the Wasteland. She writes:

T.S. Eliot was captivated by the metaphor of the wasteland... amids the devastation of World War I... Eliot predicts that our current Wasteland will be a "heap of broken images" (where we must) wade through a heap of broken images, shattered and scattered (through our) fake news, conspiracy theories, memes, and manipulative and divisive boths tht ctontripute to this heap which no longer offers us a cohesive picture of reality. This apt metaphor is a way to articulate the stress we place on our imagination, how we overwhelm it with fear-filled, death-dealing images. Being pelted with fear-filled images forces us to diminish our essence, seek security over risk, and restort to literalism. We strain to develop a collective vision for planet earth, let alone understand what direction we should turn inorder to secure a vibrant vision for the future.

So, as holy fools committed to beauty in the midst of this wasteland, we sing: we harmonize carefully, we incarnate an alternative to the cacaphony that surrounds us, and we invite others to join the choir. Not forever, just right now. We listen to one another carefully. We encourage one another's gifts, we push our bandmates beyond their time-tested limits with creative challenges, and we practice being alive together with gratitude. There's NO other reason for our music parties than to BE together. Sharing live music becomes a tender spiritual practice where trust is rehearsed for a few hours despite an era saturation in alienation and suspiscion. The jazz master, Wynton Marsailis, has noted that on the bandstand musicians know that we're being together creatively in real time. If one stumbles, it is up to the rest of us to help our partner up in ways that redeem the experience and keep the music moving in ways that turn a mistake into a new creation. 

We don't yet know where our culture and country is headed: there are options that could be blessing but they could just as easily be curses, too. What we do know is that in our current wasteland, isolation makes life worse not better. It diminishes our willingness to share and shrivels our capacity for trust. And so, like other holy fools before us, we sing. And play. And invite small groups to gather together to join in the songs. Right now, that's about all we can do. As the wise, prefigurative educator, Paulo Freire, told us: we make the road by walking.

  

learning to own what is real in these trying times...

From time to time I suggest that in many ways I am a slow learner. I take a LONG time to let go of trying to fix, reclaim, or resolve a broken relationship. I am reasonably comfortable waiting for others to sort out what they need in any given situation and then talk together with them about how we might address one another's needs. I trust the the arch of the moral universe truly tips ever so slightly towards that which is good, true, and beeautiful - and that justice eventually triumphs over evil Not all at once. And not in all situations. But because I believe in my head and heart that God's creation is constructed upon love, coherence and compassion, I practice an existential patience of sorts.

Outwardly. Inwardly I still bounce around with competing feelings of paranoia, angst, and resentment. I've learned to put these feelings aside, take a deep breath, and return again and again to centering prayer. The wisdom of our wounds is that our feelings are always telling us something, but it's usually to do the exact opposite of what we want to do in these moments. It isn't easy. Or simple. Or where my broken soul turns to first. But, over the years, I've learned that this is the better way. Be still and know is not just the name of my spiritual direction practice and FB work site. It is a commitment that brings nourishment and a measure of peace within. It is an acquired art - never perfect - but still salvific and satisfying. 

Sadly, we don't live in a culture that honors waiting, patience, or silence. Especially in this weird semi-post covid era where expectations ache for normalcy in a time when normal is the last thing that's happening. We are in a season unlike any in modern history - and it is exhausting. Recently, the artist, poet, musician, Carrie Newcomer, wrote:

I remember sitting alone in a sidewalk cafe on a crisp autumn day. The sunlight was sparkling on the yellow leaves of a maple tree. The coffee cup was warm, the brew was strong and I’d taken out my notebook to write. Four beautifully bearded and tattooed young people were sitting at the next table. There was a lull in the conversation and everyone had gotten on their smart phones, checking texts and the weather, social media or the latest up to the second news. The image was common, people sitting side by side on a bus, airport gate, waiting room or cafe, all giving up the wide view of their individual attention to the small view of the device in their hands. It felt like a missed opportunity.

A lull in the conversation is a moment to breathe, take in the autumn air, create the kind of connection that can only happen in quiet moments when nothing much (and yet everything) is happening. A lull is a time when something might spark a new idea or line of conversation. A lull is a open space that invites us into possibility, deeper connection, taking notice and just “being.” (But) we’ve become so used to information that comes rapid-fire and having our mental space so full its like any given moment of our lives have three news scrolls crawling along the bottom edge. A lull has started to feel unfamiliar, even uncomfortable in a culture that presses us to hurry-up-and-get-there- before…before…before what? Before the walls of the golden city are built? Before the polar bears are lost? Before the next thing we were suppose to do is already over?

Three truths in this weird in-between time of covid confusion, cultural chaos, and political uncertainty are finally becoming clear to me:

+ First, the anxieties, dangers, and trauma of the pandemic have worn me out. Back in Tucson we used to say: I feel like I've been ridden hard and hung up wet to dry. In my part of Massachuessets the plague has returned to "high" levels of infection - and yet people are not masking, or practicing social distancing, or self-isolating. Of course we're tired of doing this but... such disregard is dangerous and disturbing. We're not out of the trouble no matter how weary, innoculated, or cocky we feel. So, as I prepare for the third autumn/winter of the pandemic, I'm feeling the wear and tear the pandemic has taken on my soul as well as heart, body, and mind.

+ Second, my sweet heart and I are trying to figure out what it means for us to care for her often precarious health. Without violating anyone's privacy, let's just say that there are a lot of days when all we can do is wait. And for two people used to lots of wandering, exploring new territory, and long walks without any clear goal or destination, this has been another layer of challenge. For a variety of reasons, the shopping, house cleaning, laundry, cooking, bookkeeping, and calendar-minding have become my domain. At first, it was just what was needed to be done on any given day. Now it's become part of our family's rhythm even as we try to understand how to do it over the long haul with a grace, humor, and intentionality. 

+ And third, the combination of covid and illness - to say nothing of the political and social chaos of the past six years - has impelled us both to make very clear choices about how to use whatever little energy we still possess for love, beauty, and solidarity. There was once a time when I had the illusion that I could multi-task. I couldn't really, of course, but I could make a stab at juggling work, home, creativity, and family. Not any more. Now, the best I can muster is two tasks outside of my daily study, prayer, and house work. Anything more is exhausting. Troubling and frustrating, too. Consequently, almost everything except family, music, L'Arche, and gardening have fallen to the side of our lives. We still care, but no longer have the juice needed to give others the attention they desire. One spiritual director used to say: learning to say NO is a matter of sanity as you mature. She was right!

It's taken me 30 months to realize these truths: that's what I mean about being a slow learner! That's not denigrating myself, just owning the fact that while many speak about a return to normalcy, there's precious little that feels normal to me. So, here's to the lull. Here's to taking it slow. Here's to giving yourself lots of permission and time to rest because we're ALL doing the best we can with what we have to work with.