To say that 2026 has been full would be a wild understatement. Di's health concerns became more complicated. I've been working vigorously at the beloved Palmer congregational church and playing a lot of music gigs in both All of Us ( https://www.facebook.com/james.lumsden/) and Wednesday)'s Child (https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61575902260523) all of which has been rewarding and creative - but demanding. And then, just when one health problem plateaued, another arrived for such is the joy of aging, n'est pas? The Queen of Provincetown, the late Mary Oliver, wrote:
Everyone should be born into this world happy
and loving everything.
But in truth it rarely works that way.
For myself, I have spent my life clamoring toward it.
Halleluiah, anyway I'm not where I started!
And have you too been trudging like that, sometimes
almost forgetting how wondrous the world is
and how miraculously kind some people can be?
And have you too decided that probably nothing important
is ever easy?
Not, say, for the first sixty years.
Halleluiah, I'm sixty now, and even a little more,
and some days I feel I have wings.
I concur, albeit with a few qualifications: these days, I am more fragile than before; my diminished hearing is a pain in the ass; and my heart becomes weary as loved ones cross over into eternal life, and my country goes through yet another spell of cruelty and crudity. This, too, shall pass, I know, and I look to Mother Nature for reminders. But like George Harrison sang 57 years ago: "Isn't it a pity, isn't it a shame, how we break each other's hearts and cause each other pain." In his masterwork, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," he adds: "I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping... while my guitar gently weeps." Some days that's all I can do: weep. Mostly, however, I give thanks for the beauty and joy that remains for that is what shall endure. Again, our beloved Mary Oliver, got it right when she wrote:
Everyone should be born into this world happy
and loving everything.
But in truth it rarely works that way.
For myself, I have spent my life clamoring toward it.
Halleluiah, anyway I'm not where I started!
And have you too been trudging like that, sometimes
almost forgetting how wondrous the world is
and how miraculously kind some people can be?
And have you too decided that probably nothing important
is ever easy?
Not, say, for the first sixty years.
Halleluiah, I'm sixty now, and even a little more,
and some days I feel I have wings.
I concur, albeit with a few qualifications: these days, I am more fragile than before; my diminished hearing is a pain in the ass; and my heart becomes weary as loved ones cross over into eternal life, and my country goes through yet another spell of cruelty and crudity. This, too, shall pass, I know, and I look to Mother Nature for reminders. But like George Harrison sang 57 years ago: "Isn't it a pity, isn't it a shame, how we break each other's hearts and cause each other pain." In his masterwork, "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," he adds: "I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping... while my guitar gently weeps." Some days that's all I can do: weep. Mostly, however, I give thanks for the beauty and joy that remains for that is what shall endure. Again, our beloved Mary Oliver, got it right when she wrote:
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
My prayer for myself and all of you during this retreat is simple: may we incrementally relinquish our worries, take our old bodies out into the morning sunshine, and sing.
(di's picture from the balcony of our retreat cottage)
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