The Place I Want to Get Back To

is where

     in the pinewoods

          in the moments between 

               the darkness

and first light

     two deer

          came walking down the hill

               and when they saw me

they said to each other, okay,

     this one is okay,

          let's see who she is

               and why she is sitting

on the ground, like that,

     so quiet, as if

          asleep, or in a dream,

               but, anyway, harmless;

and so they came

     on their slender legs

          and gazed upon me

               not unlike the way

I go out to the dunes and look

     and look and look

          into the faces of the flowers;

               and then one of them leaned forward

and nuzzled my hand, and what can my life

     bring to me that could exceed

          that brief moment?

               For twenty years

I have gone every day to the same woods,

     not waiting, exactly, just lingering.

          Such gifts, bestowed,

               can't be repeated.

If you want to talk about this

     come to visit. I live in the house

          near the corner, which I have named

               Gratitude.

-Mary Oliver

Lo, he comes

A canceled end-of-the-day lesson leaves me with several hours in a row to do with as I please.

There are a host of things on my to-do list. The least of which is the hours of practice I still have yet to do in preparation for what may prove to be the most difficult final of my academic career.

Every part of me knows that I should practice. I have successfully avoided it all day, and tomorrow's Mary, as well as next Thursday's Mary will be annoyed with present Mary for not using the time she has.

But my soul is restless, in a way I can't help but attend to.

And as I allow myself a moment to sit, they come. 

The tears. 

The ones that have been brimming all day, all week.

From where, I don't exactly know.

Maybe they spring from anxiety, from exhaustion, from overwhelmedness. 

Will I make it?

Will I be enough?

Will I find any more reserves of strength within me?

Will I get it done?

Will this, too, pass?

Maybe they spring from soul-weariness, from grief, from disillusionment with the fight.

Will the wrong ever be made right?

Will the evil ever be broken?

Will the light ever overcome the darkness?

Will the truth win out?

Will this, too, pass?

Maybe they spring from joy, from wonder, from surprising, unspeakable beauty.

Will I give in to the joy?

Will I dare to hope?

Will I choose to feed my faith?

Will I continue to keep my eyes peeled for the glimpses of light?

Will I refuse to let the moments pass me by without choosing to be present to them?

As I write, I find myself mesmerized by the brilliant hues of the setting sun peering through the shadows of a tangled web of bare branches.
The contrast is stark.
The branches are cold and lifeless - the sun, warm and inviting. 

And isn't this the perfect picture of Advent?

The dark and the light. The cold and the warm. The now and the not yet. 

The hope and belief that the baby will come, and the honest acknowledgement of the reality that he is not here yet.

But it is more than that. It is the belief that his coming does not happen all at once. That his coming is gradual. That he is still in the process of coming. That his arrival wasn't only in the past, and that it isn't only in the future.
It is ongoing. It is today. It is now.

The last glimmer of daylight fades, and we settle in for a long, cold night.

But there is life in the darkness.

Though all seems still, cold, lifeless, tired, dead....yet there is movement, imperceptible to our near-sighted eyes. While we sleep, the dancing globe will continue its slow and steady twirl. And tomorrow, when we wake again, we will once more greet the light of the sun. The light that has been there all along. The light that even as it leaves us, has already begun its return.

And so we give thanks.

For the light that has been.
For the light that is now.
For the light that is, even now, coming.

Lo, he comes, the long-expected one.

Lo, he is here, Emmanuel.

The one who has been with us.

The one who will be with us.

The one who is being with us.

Memory

My dirty feet carry me today

The residue mirroring that which

Remains on my soul

An escape to the north, to the wide open space

To a lake, masquerading as an

Ocean

To a hill, pretending to be a

Mountain

In the desperate freedom of my imagination,

They are both.

My feet find the mud

Plunge into its murky

Depths

Surrender to its squishy

Darkness

They come alive as they leap from rock to rock

Bask in the sunlight, fresh air

Relish in the flow, deep below the surface of the cloudy stream

Here, they are finally at

Home.

Could it be that this is where my soul dwells?

Could it be that it is housed not in my head, or in my chest, but

Here, where my body-clothes grasp the earth,

Here, where my trunk sends down its roots,

Here, where the weight teeters and balances

Here, where the trail is blazed, where the wandering begins

I will leave the dirt lodged between my toes

The mark of my

Baptism

A reminder to my forgetful eyes

That I am not just where I am

Going

That I am also where I have

Been. 

the possibility of sky

The time is ripe for looking back over the day, the week, the year, and trying to figure out where we have come from and where we are going to, for sifting through the things we have done and the things we have left undone for a clue to who we are and who, for better or worse, we are becoming.

- Frederick Buechner

As I reflect on the passing year, my mind centers on a word that I have been chewing on for quite some time now: gratitude. It has been an intentional practice in my life for a number of years. I keep a gratitude journal and regularly track the blessings, large and small, that fall by the bucketful on my head.

This year, the intensity, intentionality, and even sense of urgency, of my practice deepened, as I began to see the roots of bitterness in the lives of the people around me. I reflected on this, and on the ugly parts of myself that have the potential to harden into bitterness. And I sought an answer to the nagging question: how do I prevent this? How can I remain soft, open, compassionate, joyful towards the people and world around me?  The answer was clear: the best cure, and even preventative measure, for bitterness is gratitude. 

I was sharing this with a friend this fall, and through our conversation, I began to see the patterns in our culture that often feed our bitterness. It is our American practice to ask each other how we are - and unfortunately, it's more of a greeting now, than an intentional question. But we often respond negatively: I'm tired, stressed, overwhelmed, just OK, busy. And as I continued to ponder this, the question arose: how would we change if we replaced this greeting with, what are you thankful for?

So this has become our practice, my friend and I, when we see each other. No meaningless how-are-you's allowed. Only expressions of thankfulness. And over time, our practice has been refined. A few ground rules have been established. The answer must be true, pure - not twinged with sarcasm. How often do we issue a complaint, shrouded in a cloak of thanksgiving? 

But what a beautiful thing it is to fill the well with truth, to dispel the darkness, to starve the bitter roots. How energizing and life-giving it is to be on the lookout for the gifts, to cultivate an awareness for the things that are so often rendered invisible by our preoccupation with productivity. I find myself keeping track of the blessings throughout the day, ready to give an answer when the question comes. I struggle to give just one answer when there is so much to rejoice in!

~~~

A few nights ago, I had a dream.  Well, I'm not sure if you can technically call it a dream. It occurred in the no-man's-land between fully-awake and out-cold. For some inexplicable reason, a memory broke loose from the hidden recesses of my brain and danced its way across my consciousness. And upon further consideration, I now realize that the event it recalled was ten years ago this year.

I was fulfilling my maid of honor duties, attending a bridal shower thrown by the bride's college friends, most of whom I'd never met. One of them, a kind, thoughtful soul, happened to share my name - a rarity for me, especially with someone my own age. Our conversation turned, quite naturally, to the topic of names. She had grown to love exploring their meanings and implications and asked me what I thought of ours. I laughed as I told her about the little name card I'd been given as a child, which identified the meaning as "blessed fragrance." It couldn't be further from the truth. The name is Hebrew in origin, a derivative of the word "mara" - the word for "bitter." Not exactly high on the list of "names you should give your child to bring them health and prosperity." 

She asked if I'd like to hear her take on it, and naturally, I obliged. She began to talk about the most famous Mary, the mother of Jesus. It was a dark time in Jewish history, she said; the people were angry at God, weary of the weight of the Roman oppression, wondering if He would ever break His silence (a silence that lasted 400 years). Why hadn't He sent a savior to them, to lead them to freedom? How long would they have to wait? 

She went on: how beautiful, then, that salvation would come through the womb of a woman named Mary - in the face of their bitterness. So, she smiled, I prefer to think of it, not as 'bitter', but instead as 'conqueror of bitterness.'  Now there's a meaning I can get on board with.

~~~

Who knows what brought that memory to mind as I lay silent in the dark? Who knows what thought or conversation plucked it loose from its place on some forgotten shelf? 

But how beautiful to see the evidence of life, of growth, of hidden streams beneath the frozen surface, of the belief in the possibility of sky, even in the midst of total darkness. Who knew that a seed scattered 10 years ago in a two-minute conversation with a perfect stranger would take root? Who knew that under the dry, crusty, rocky soil, there were forces of life at work? Who knew that this practice of gratitude would sprinkle water and light and nutrients on a long-forgotten seed? Who knew that that seed would wrestle its way to the surface and send a shoot blazing through the cold, hard earth?

~~~

As I write, the snow falls softly outside. I have long been mystified by the fact that we celebrate the new year now, in the middle of winter, when the outside world speaks of nothing but death and cold and darkness. It seems the most illogical time to speak of new life and hope and light. The ground is cold, frozen solid, buried under a foot of snow. Spring seems an impossibility; how could anything survive in this icy darkness? And yet, here we are, turning our faces into the bitter cold, looking forward with expectation, with joy, with gratitude.

willing to wander

"Walking with someone through grief,

or through the process of reconciliation,

requires patience, presence,and 

a willingness to wander..."

-Rachel Held Evans
  
 "Thus when you wake up in the morning, called by God to be a self again, 

if you want to know who you are, watch your feet. 

Because where your feet take you, that is who you are."

 - Frederick Buechner

I was reading some Rachel Held Evans this week, as I reflected on the passing year. This phrase seemed to jump off the page at me: willingness to wander. She spoke of it in the context of helping someone seek healing. We are quick to attempt to fix, find a cure, solve the problem. But healing doesn't work this way. It isn't linear. It isn't predictable. There is no formula.  To walk with someone on the path of healing is to walk without a map, without a plan, without an agenda.

But I think this principle of wandering extends beyond the path for healing.  Because to be in relationship with people is to be willing to wander.

Am I willing to wander with my students?
It may be that I have played a song 100 times, coached it with master teachers, soaked in the poetry....but will I be open to a different interpretation? Will I be ready to play it the way that they need to sing it?
Am I willing to hear their questions and resist the urge to give them a ready-made, pre-cut answer? Am I willing to take their challenges to heart? Am I willing to change my mind?
Am I willing to learn from them?

Am I willing to wander with others I hold dear?
Am I willing to watch them go down a path that by all my estimations is wrong...dangerous...not what I would have chosen? Am I willing to stay with them in it...simply to be with them?

Am I willing to wander with myself?
Am I willing to let the journey take me where it will? Am I willing to walk down a path, and resist the desire to apologize for it or seek to explain it to anyone else...or even to myself?
Am I willing to listen, really listen to the voice of my soul?
Am I willing to move in a non-linear pattern....even if it means moving in a circle?
Am I willing to wander into places I do not expect anything Divine to dwell?
Am I willing to seek the light, wherever it may be found?

One of the rules of my weekly Sabbath is the practice of spontaneity. There are of course, restrictions about what I avoid on that day - things related to schedules and work and technology being at the top of the list. But the main purpose of the day is to listen to my soul, to do the things that will bring me life in that moment. And most often, this involves listening to my feet. Often I find myself setting out on a walk, with no agenda, no destination, no ETA. And I quickly find that creating space for spontaneity - for wandering - can lead to space for surprises too. And where there is room for surprise, there is room for wonder. "Attention," says Mary Oliver, "is the beginning of devotion."

In reflecting on this idea of wandering, I am reminded of the famous words of Tolkein, Not all who wander are lost. And, while I appreciate the sentiment, I might be so bold as to add: Some are, but there's nothing wrong with that. Sometimes 'living the questions', to borrow a phrase from Rilke, means wandering for awhile.

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything.  Live the questions now.  Perhaps then, someday far in the future,  you will gradually, without noticing it, live your way into the answer."

 - Rainier Maria Rilke

praying

It doesn't have to be 

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

-Mary Oliver

Artists don't compartmentalize.

I've been mulling on this thought for a few months now, ever since a colleague of mine said it in rehearsal. It came in the context of the students having to do multiple things at once....sing accurate pitches and rhythms, adhere to expression markings, blend with their section, be mindful of their breath, tell the story, etc., etc., etc. Making music in ensemble is an extreme form of multi-tasking.

Artists don't compartmentalize.

As he spoke these words, I felt my eyes well with tears. Yes, he was speaking about that particular moment in rehearsal; he was acknowledging the seeming-impossibility of his request for them to do all these things at once. But, as usual, there was a deeper meaning behind his words.

When I walk on the stage, as much as I would love to leave behind the fears, anxieties, burdens, hurts, stresses of my day, week, month, year, lifetime, the truth is, they follow me on.  So when I am feeling tense, my playing is tense. When I am feeling anxious, my playing is anxious.  When I am feeling broken, my playing is broken.

But I have long held the belief that audiences don't want perfection.  What moves us most is not a masterfully-sculpted phrase or a perfectly-tuned chord.  What moves us most is Truth.  Honesty. Humanity.   And yes, if the phrase is bumpy or the chord is out of tune, we might be a bit distracted from the truth.  But also, I think we forgive the musical shortcomings if the expression is honest.

Artists don't compartmentalize.
And I don't think humans should either.

I love these words of Mary Oliver.  They serve as a reminder to me that I don't need to assume a specific posture to touch the Divine.  There aren't magic words to be said.

The invitation is to come as we are.
Weeds, irises, stones, anxiety, brokenness, humanity....it's all welcome.
The promise is that He will inhabit it all.  Emmanuel.   God with us.

breathe

Even with darkness sealing us in,

we breathe your name.

 - Michael Dennis Browne

Remember to breathe.  Take time to breathe.  Just breathe.

We use these phrases often.   Or at least, I do.

Even just yesterday, while coffee-ing with a student, she spelled out her weekly schedule for me, and I interrupted to ask, "do you ever take time to breathe?"  It is a question I find myself frequently asking of my students and colleagues alike.  In a world that glorifies busyness, it is easy to find ourselves feeling guilty for pausing, for choosing to measure our worth by something besides our productivity.

But, as I pause, and sip wine and stare at the stars and contemplate how I might incorporate more "breathing time" into my own schedule, I suddenly realize how silly that sounds.  Why do we have to set aside specific time for an involuntary action that we do an average of every 5 seconds?

What we mean, of course, is that we must set aside specific time to make the conscious choice to be aware of, involved in our breath.  Busyness does not come without a price.  It dulls our awareness - of the world around us, of other people, of glimmers of beauty, of even the inner workings of these bodies our souls call home. To be unaware of these things is to be unreceptive to the gifts of the present.  In allowing busyness to steal our awareness, our mindfulness, our openness to receive....we then also relinquish most of our opportunities to be grateful.

I'll be the first to say that I'm guilty of holding my breath, of forgetting to inhale the gifts of the world around me, of failing to exhale the negativity and anxiety that plagues me. So often, I have blazed ahead, unaware of the tension that creeps ever-so-slowly into my shoulders, of the knots silently swirling in my back.

I have developed a habit over the years of learning new pieces of music with the aid of a metronome. My goal-oriented self loves the sense of achievement I feel each day as I increase the speed by a few clicks.  I love to see progress, however slow or minute it may be.  I love to trace the journey of where I've been and celebrate the small daily victories.

Obviously, the goal here is more than just self-gratification.  This slow, methodical, seemingly-tedious practice enables my muscles to learn the necessary patterns without allowing the tension to sneak in.  When the tempo is slow, I have space to be mindful of what I am doing, time to be aware of my breathing.  The slow, steady tick holds me accountable to not go any faster than my breath.

Of course, I cannot stay married to the metronome forever.  At some point, I will need to turn it off. Metronomes can teach us how to remain steady - they can hold us accountable to resist the urge to rush ahead or drag behind.  But they cannot teach us to phrase, to dance.  They cannot teach us about the space between the notes.  They cannot teach us the importance of the silence.  They cannot teach us to make music.

We are made for rhythm.  I believe this with every fiber of my being.  There is a place where the beat meets the groove - a tempo that is right - one that moves forward with purpose while still remaining relaxed and grounded.   But the rhythm cannot live until we turn the metronome off.  The rhythm cannot learn to dance unless it is broken.

So today I break my rhythm.

The weekdays are for metronomes.  For incremental progress.  For learning the patterns.  For faithfulness in the slow and steady work.  For attempting to not go any faster than my breath.

But the Sabbath.
The Sabbath is for silence.  For recalibration.  For release.  For remembering.  For listening.  For gratitude.

Today I break my rhythm.
And in doing so, I find it.

To live is to breathe.

To breathe is to live.

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

I just moved to a new neighborhood.

I don’t love moving, and this one was my third move in four years.

But it feels right.

I spent two years living in a city where I felt like a misfit – a fish out of water. I felt like I was suffocating much of the time – and I never really ever felt completely safe. Sure, I found and cultivated sweet community while I was there, but I always felt like a part of myself was dormant, lost. And, while I do not love the labor it takes to leave somewhere, I do not know that I have ever been more glad to leave somewhere in my life.

I spent a year hiding out. In a little nook, with nothing but wild, untamed nature as my companion.  I think I needed a year of detox.  I needed to look out my window and see trees...just trees...no concrete.  I needed to rediscover myself and remember how to let my soul breathe again.  I needed to learn how to listen to the silences.

And now I’m here.

Yesterday I went for a walk, and at one point, I looked to my left and saw a community garden, each raised bed marked with a hand-painted sign identifying the caretaker responsible for tending it.  I looked to my right and saw a woman asleep on her roof.  And somehow, in that moment, I knew this was the neighborhood for me.

This evening, I wandered to the park which is a mere half block from my house. Every Thursday in the summer, there is a concert. And, around 5:55, right on time, people starting coming out of the woodwork, picnic dinners and lawn chairs in tow.

It was a Klezmer band tonight.

And there may or may not have been people dancing in the grass.

They also may or may not have been more than twice my age.

There are moments, when I’m sitting in my sun porch (yes, I have a sun porch), nibbling on chocolate and freshly-picked cherries, sipping a glass of wine…when a part of me misses my nook. Misses looking out the window and seeing trees and nothing else.  Misses the stillness, the energy of the quiet.

But, then there are also moments, when I'm sitting in my sun porch (yep, still have a sun porch), sipping my glass of wine, and I look across the street to see another woman appear on her balcony with her own glass of wine.
And in a moment, I know it’s going to be OK.

There are still silences to be listened to.  There is still space for soul-breathing.  There are still trees, abundant.

And there are people - there is community - to share them with.

here we are

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know you.

I mean, of course, I can.

I lived 20 years before I met you.   20 full years.

But somehow in your quest to know my story - the days, hours, years - the seasons - I lived before our hearts began their journey together – you have, in fact, in some mysterious way, become part of my whole story – even the parts you weren’t actually present for.

Sometimes I forget how much life we’ve actually lived together.

Sometimes I forget how much you’ve seen me through.

Sometimes I forget how much of me you’ve seen.

It’s true: you have seen me.  

You have seen past my attempts to hide, 
                right straight through my half-answers and avoidance tactics.  
You have seen me through the veil of your tears - you have seen me sitting in a pool of my own - week after week, month after month.
You have seen the passions and longings of my heart,
     and you have echoed them back to me in my seasons of forgetfulness.

You have seen me at my best,
                                            on the mountain top, doing my victory dance.  

You have seen me in the depths,
                                                                in the darkness, in the muck.

And never have you demanded an apology for what you see.

Never have you asked me to be anything I am not.

Not once have you been scared away by my honesty. In fact, you crave it. 
                   I’m pretty sure you have a full-on addiction to truth.

You see fully, and still you ask to know more.

Oh, how you ask.

Oh, how I love how you ask.

The inquisitive kind of questions, born of an insatiable curiousity.

The thumb-tack-on-your-chair kinds of questions.

 Why settle for "how are you" when you can ask "who are you"?

 Why settle for "what do you do" when you can ask "what brings you life"?

The questions that come out of frustration. Why? How long?

How long? 

How long, indeed.

You have taught me to embrace the season,
                                           even if it feels like it will never end.

You have taught me to be present where I am.

You celebrate when it is time to celebrate.

You grieve when it is time to grieve.

And when you have no idea what it is time for, you just keep digging.

It can’t hurt to till the soil, right?

And so we keep on tilling.

We dig our knees into the dirt once more, and with the sun beating down on our backs, we plunge our hands into the soil, and continue the seemingly endless task of sorting out the rocks, breaking up the clumps, one by one.

Sometimes we work in silence.

Sometimes we chatter away.

Sometimes we laugh so hard that we cry.

Sometimes we cry so hard that we laugh.

Sometimes we wonder if it will ever be more than just dirt.
Sometimes it seems impossible to believe that there will be anything
but acres, upon acres of brown.

But, here's to the brown.   Here's to the mud. 
Here's to the hope of green.
Here's to the seeds that will hopefully be planted at some point, and to the sprouts that will maybe, somehow, by some miracle, find their way to the light of day.
Here's to the laughter and the tears.
Here's to the truth that we hold to.     Here's to the truth that holds us.
Here's to living the questions. 
Here's to being seen and known and understood.
Here's to choosing gratitude.
Here's to being together, in all our brokenness.

Here's to being here.               Wherever here is.

Father and Lord,
         most near and most far,

    Listen to our silence before Thee,
              as well as to our prayers,
                             because often it is the silence that speaks better of our need.

Speak Thy joy into our silence.
Breathe Thy life into our less-than-life,
          not for our own sakes only,
                   but for the sake of those to whom, with Thy life in us,
                                                                            we may, ourselves, bring life.

Much as we wish,
           not one of us can bring back yesterday
                                                   or shape tomorrow.
                              ONLY TODAY IS OURS
                                                                        and it will not be ours for long.
     And once it is gone,
                       it will never,     in all time,
                                                               be ours again.

Thou only knowest what it holds in store for us.
Yet even we know something of what it will hold:
            a chance to speak truth,
                to show mercy,
                to ease another's burden
             the chance to resist evil,
                to remember all the good times and good people of our past.
                to be brave
                      to be strong
                               to be glad.

We know that today, as every day,
                 our lives will be touched by Thee.
     and that one way or another,
                                            Thou wilt speak to us before we sleep,
         for the very moments themselves of our lives           are Thy words to us.

Give us ears to hear Thee speak.
                Give us hearts to quicken
                                                       as Thou drawest near.

-Frederick Buechner

thin places

"...music is about as physical as it gets:

your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath.

We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix,

it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."

- Anne Lamott

I make music. For a living.
Sometimes I forget how great that is.

Because, truth be told, there's a lot that's not so great about it.

There are moments, days, weeks...seasons....when I question what I do. Why don't I just go get an office job that wouldn't demand so much of me...that I wouldn't care so much about...that would actually give me a decent salary, and dare-I-say-it....benefits?

My hours are long...and irregular. It's not uncommon for me to work 12-15 hours a day, 6 days a week. I often wonder what it would be like to work 8-5 and actually leave my work at work and have...a weekend. When I don't have a gig, I have rehearsal for a gig...or I should probably be practicing for said gig.

My work is never done. At this moment in time, I am responsible for roughly 400 pages of music. So really, when I say I make music for a living, what I mean is, I juggle music for a living. I live from one performance to another. I've barely got time to celebrate one recital, before I'm prepping for the next one.

I am constantly being critiqued...by my colleagues, employers...and myself. I struggle to remind myself that while my daily performance is important - and while I should absolutely strive to bring my best to everything I do...my worth is not found in how many right notes I play, or how dazzling my technique is. I struggle to remember that I am more than a musician.

It is not easy to be a musician in today's world. Musicians (and artists of all kinds) are forced to burn the candle at both ends. We juggle full schedules of rehearsals, lessons, performances. And when we're not practicing, rehearsing, performing or teaching - we become advocates...trying to convince our society - and sometimes even ourselves - that what we do matters...that it is necessary.

I make music. For a living.

Sometimes I forget how great that is.

Even as I sit here, I have begun and erased at least 2 dozen sentences, as I attempt to express my wonder, my joy - my sheer delight in the fact that someone actually pays me to do what I love. I honestly don't even know where to start.

I get paid to interact with poetry and melody. 

     To absorb it - let it affect me, change me, become part of me.
I get paid to create. 

     To paint with colors of sound.
I get paid to collaborate. 

     To journey with another - and cultivate something new together
I get paid to tell stories. 

     To give voice to another's, to reveal my own.
I get paid to express. 

     To speak hope, joy, freedom, comfort, truth.

The Celtic mystics use the term "thin place" to refer to a sacred space - one where the veil between the material world and the eternal world is thin. 

Poet Sharlande Sledge describes them this way:

"Thin places," the Celts call this space,

Both seen and unseen,

Where the door between the world 

And the next is cracked open for a moment

And the light is not all on the other side.

God shaped space. Holy.

I think I am beginning to realize that my work is one giant "thin place."

I spend my days on the edge of the divine. Of course, we're always on the edge; the divine is always present - all around us, within us.

But somehow, when there is poetry, when there is music - when they swirl and resonate together - when we add the tenderness of our hearts to the mix - the veil becomes so thin, you forget it's even there.

and the light spills out from the other side. 

I make music.  For a living.

Sometimes I forget how great that is.

the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom

"At the end of the day, people won't remember what you said or did;

they will remember how you made them feel."

- Maya Angelou

I love the rhythm of the seasons.  I love to watch the transformation of the world around me, as the long days become long nights, and the bare branches sprout blossoms once more.  I love that when everything is still and cold and frozen - this is the time we choose to call the "new year."  Of course, in other parts of the world, the new year is ushered in by sunlight and warmth.  But, no matter.  I love that here, in the dead of winter, when all around us is snowy darkness, we turn our face into the icy wind and look forward with expectation into what is to come.

Sometimes I think about how overwhelming life would be if we didn't keep time - if we didn't count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decades.  I can hardly fathom what it would mean to have the moments stretch on and on, without any sort of definition.

No, we are created for rhythm.  Of this I am sure.  We need structure - we need definition.  We need to be able to categorize and compartmentalize things.  We need to be able to leave things behind: "2013 was a hard one - I'm glad it's done."  We need to be able to look ahead: "2014 will be better, I can already tell."


In the last few years, it has become my New Year's tradition to pause for a few hours and reflect on the year.  Sometimes I read through my journal (provided it was a good year for journaling).  Sometimes I re-trace the journey month-by-month.  Sometimes, I just sit, mesmerized by the tree lights or the flickering candles, savoring the sweet stillness.   And I am always surprised at how powerful it can be to take the time and space to actively remember.

365 days ago, I was preparing to tackle my final semester at Peabody, having no idea that 12-mos. later, I would have completed my first semester as a music theory professor.

I am amazed at how much can be crammed into a single year....at how much has changed...and at how much is exactly the same.  I think back on what has transpired - the milestone events - large and small - the ones that happened on a stage, the ones that happened in a practice room, and the ones that happened in my living room.  

I stumbled upon this Maya Angelou quote, as I was flipping through my journal this evening. From what I can gather (I am not always the most detailed in my journaling), it was Denyce Graves who quoted it, when I was playing for one of her students' lessons one afternoon. She framed it within the context of singing - within the world of theater....which makes total sense. We don't necessarily remember how an actor moved his hands or even with what inflection he delivered the line - but we will remember being moved. We will remember a line or a phrase cutting straight to the heart.

Yes, there are specific moments I remember from the last year.  There are words, phrases that people have spoken to me in the last 12 months - and I will continue to replay them for years to come.  There are things people have done for me - small things, and ginormous things - that will remained ingrained in my memory.  

But Maya's right.  I remember them because of how they made me feel.

So then I got to thinking...as is prone to happen when wine and chocolate and candlelit lanterns are involved:       How do people make us feel?

Uneasy.

Awkward.

Small.

Fearful.
Weak.

Stupid.

Alone.

Worthless.

Safe.

Loved.

Heard.

Understood.

Seen.

Important.

Peaceful.

Forgiven.

Empowered.

Thankful..

Free.

Needed.

Alive.

We are not responsible for the feelings of others.  We feel what we feel - and we really have no control over that, at least to an extent.  But at the same time, we must also never forget that our words and our actions carry great weight and power.  The people we brush shoulders with every day are precious, extraordinary, fragile.

I always find it fascinating to read the list of "most influential people of the year" (by somebody's standards) and peruse the catalog of people who have passed on in the last year.  Many of them, I've never heard of. Most of them have had little or no direct impact on my life.

Because the people that matter most to me are the people whose faces now find themselves plastered to my frig.  And as I allow my eyes to drift over those precious faces, the feelings come surging back.  I see the eyes of one who sees me. I see the smile and, in my head, hear the laugh of one who makes me come alive.

For the most part, I cannot tell you what it is exactly that they did or said.  But the feelings run deep.  And the feelings remain.

And so, as I close the book on yet another year, I do so with gratitude.  I marvel at the mystery of human interaction.  I am awed by the glimpses of the divine that I see all around me.  I give thanks for the fingerprints - so divinely human - that have left their mark on my heart.  

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  -  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com 

when starbucks gets it wrong and santa gets it right

wonder

noun

a feeling of surprise mingled with admiration,

caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.

I was walking past Starbucks the other day, and paused for a moment as I took in this year's holiday slogan:    "Create Wonder. Share Joy."

Sharing joy. Now there's something I can absolutely be on board with. There are few things more contagious than a smile - so I make a point to lock eyes with the people I pass on the sidewalk and send a little Christmas cheer their way.  (Note: this is especially delightful to do in crowded shopping malls 4 days before Christmas).

But...creating wonder?   Is wonder really something that can be created?  Can it be manufactured?  Is there a magical recipe - a combination of specific ingredients that will produce a sense of awe?  And can it really be found in a cup of coffee??


Wonder.  It's a word that gets thrown around a lot this time of year.  We hear it in Christmas carols: Star of wonder, star of light....wonders of His love.  We see it in the faces of children, as the anticipation builds and they cannot contain their excitement.  Just last night, my mom and I turned on The Polar Express as we sat wrapping presents by the fire - and I was reminded again of how childlike innocence so often breeds wonder.

I love the moment when the little boy hears the bells ringing for the first time. He has finally crossed the threshold of belief and is free to experience the wonderful and magical world of a Christmas with Santa Claus.  He takes the risk; he makes the choice to believe - to welcome in the wonder.

As we get older, most of us gradually lose our innocence and openness, falling into the clutches of intellectualism and rationalism.  We hold ever-so-fiercely to our illusion of being in control, and life becomes about doing, getting, producing...acquiring the tangibles that will supposedly make us happy. And when those don't satisfy, we attempt to manufacture the intangibles.
Creating them for ourselves is, of course, much, much safer.  

Because the reality is: we're scared. 

We are afraid of being surprised.  We are perturbed by the inexplicable.  We are terrified of the unfamiliar. We are petrified by the unexpected.

And so we close the door to our experience of wonder.  We don't want to feel the vulnerability of being out of control.  We don't want to be reminded of all we do not know or understand.  We don't want to extend an invitation to the unknown, the surprising, the unexpected. We don't want to have to welcome something in that might inspire, even force us to...change.

So I am opening my heart to the unexpected, in this season of Advent.  I am finding comfort in the mystery.  I am seeking beauty in the invisible.  I am creating space for surprises.   I am throwing out my definitions, my explanations, my plans.  I am making the choice to believe, and allowing the believing to have its way in me.  I am welcoming the wonder.

Welcome, all wonders in one sight!

Eternity shut in one span,

Summer in winter, day in night,

Heaven in earth, and God in man,

Great Little One, whose all-embracing birth

Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

 - Richard Crashaw

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

of deep breaths and dry-cleaning

It's 6:45pm.

Finally the end of a jam-packed day.

I am exhausted, to say the least.   Worn out from so many hours of being "on" - of being in charge - of people looking to me for leadership - of counting under my breath as I sightread - of mouthing the words to myself and making mental notes of vowels and consonants to correct - of trying to play and listen at the same time, so as to have some sort of constructive feedback to give when all eyes turn to me, as they inevitably will.

I've stayed late to coach 2 more singers, and thankfully, one of them brings some reciprocal energy to give me an added boost to make it in the last hour.

But now I am spent. Ready to go home and crawl in my bed, and feel the heavenly sensation of something softer than the unforgiving wood of a piano bench underneath me.

And then it hits me.

It's Wednesday.

Wednesday.  As in, the day I'm supposed to pick up my dry-cleaning.

Let me pause here to say that it's a miracle I even found the time to TAKE something to the cleaner's - and that when I took it in, I had a voice in the back of my head that said, "It will be Christmas by the time you actually remember that you have something to pick up when you actually have a spare moment to pick it up."

My body protests.  Can't you go to tomorrow?  Nope, I've got coachings until 9pm.  What about Friday?   Nope, headed to Seattle after work, so I'll want to leave as soon as possible so as to hit the pass at a reasonable hour.

It has to be today.  It has to be now.


Suzie is her name.  My dry-cleaner, that is.  She is about my height, and all legs - with a stoop in her shoulder and a long sweater that hangs loosely on her frame.  She is sweeping the floor when I come it, and it takes her a little while to realize that I am standing at the counter.  She's just a wee bit hard of hearing.   I tell (read: "yell") her my name, as her eyes peer up at me over the rims of her glasses.  I spell it 3 more times, and finally, she gets it. She jots down the number and shuffles into the corner.  After a minute or two of searching, she's found my dress.  As she puts it on the rack next to me, she makes sure to remind me to be careful when carrying it. The plastic bag is just about as tall as I am, and she doesn't want me to catch my foot on it and slip.

I wait as she tinkers with the cash register, trying to process my credit card.  It takes her a few tries, but finally, the receipt prints, and she holds it down as I sign it.  As I hand it back to her, she smiles, and with all the sincerity her sweet, gangly self can muster up, she says, "Now you have a lovely evening."

As far as location goes, Suzie's shop is convenient. It's not too terribly far out of my way on my drive home from work.   As far as cost and efficiency go, it's probably not the most competitive.  Meaning, I'm paying more for my dry-cleaning than I ever have in my life.

In fact, the thought of going elsewhere has crossed my mind more than once.


But as I stand there, watching Suzie shuffle around, digging through racks and racks of clothing, I realize that after a day of going, going, going, I am being forced to stop.  Slow my hurried pace.  Just...be.  Breathe.

Sometimes, it takes a full day of rest for me to really breathe deeply.
Sometimes, it takes a morning hike in the wilderness.
Sometimes, it takes an afternoon curled up with my journal by the fire.

And sometimes, it takes 5 minutes in a dry-cleaning shop.

Sometimes it's scary to stop.
Sometimes we're afraid that the load we've been carting around (you know, the one we're in a wee bit of denial about) will slam into us from behind.
Sometimes we're worried that if we don't hurry along, we'll fall behind.

The world around us prizes convenience and efficiency.   The world around us glorifies busy-ness.  The world around us says, "you are what you do."

But as I stand in that little shop at 7:00 on a Wednesday evening, the voice (of truth) inside of me says, "You have a more than a few things to learn from this woman."   
She's not in a hurry, and she assumes you aren't either.

There is time.

There is time to have a real conversation.

There is time to take care with your work. 

There is time for deep breaths. 

There is time for simple kindness.

There is time to look another in the eyes and exchange mercy.

                                         Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

bertha, wilfred, and a cup of strong black coffee

7:00 AM.  I roll into the music building parking lot (lucky for me, there is no competition for parking spots at this early hour).  I unload my three bags (one for my lunch, one for my teaching materials, and one for my 6 binders of music) and trudge into the building.  There is a bit of fumbling and muttering as I attempt...for the 40th time...to remember which of the 9 keys on my ring opens the recital hall door.  Lights on.  Piano cover off. Lid up.  Good morning to Big Bertha (our 9-ft concert grand).  Bench adjusted.  Metronome and pencil ready.  Binders unloaded.   Coffee cup within an arm's reach.

Ready.

Set.

Play.

I begin with choir music.  I am playing for 2 choirs this year, at two different universities.  Most of their music will be sung a cappella - but there are a couple of pieces with some hefty piano solos.  I work them slowly, at first, saying fingerings aloud to myself, isolating one hand at a time, listening and repeating until the voicing is just right.  I make the same mistake three times in a row.  The coffee must not be kicking in yet.  I pause to take another swig.

By 8 AM, I have moved on to my four (soon-to-be five) binders of solo music for my 75 singers. I start with the music I will be playing in lessons tomorrow and flip through the binder, making a mental note of which ones I need to look at more in depth.  Played that one.  Sightreadable. Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Played that one in a different key - probably should go through it once.   Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Oh, new one.

Out comes the metronome (Wilfred Jr.).  I find a ridiculously slow speed and have a go at it, pausing every now and then to mark fingerings or add accidentals.  I trod along, attempting to sing the vocal line as I work through my own part.  It's slow going, but I'm in no rush.  

This is my time.

This is my home.

This is my sanctuary.

The first few weeks of school were crazy.  I stayed afloat, and managed to arrive at each class, lesson and rehearsal at least mostly-prepared.   But I knew I was floating.  I knew I wasn't fully present, fully grounded. And it took me a few weeks to discern what the real root of my unsettledness was:

I have not worked hard enough to guard this time, this sacred space.  

A few more minutes in my bed...and 7:00 becomes 7:30, and 7:30, 8:00. Lesson planning and photocopying that should have been done the day before is put off until the hour before my first class....and 10:00 becomes 9:30, and 9:30, 9:00. Before I know it, 3 hours has become 1 hour...or has even disappeared completely.

But this time is precious, necessary.  My body relaxes as my fingers find their way across the familiar black and white terrain.  My mind is drawn into focus as I tune out the to-do list for the remainder of the day - and I work to concentrate all my energy on this moment, this song, this chord. My soul sighs as I soak in the energy of the empty hall, inhaling the quiet, exhaling each phrase.

10:00 AM.  Binders, pencil and metronome returned to their homes.  Lid down.  Piano cover on.  Lights off.  I emerge from my solitude and head upstairs to prep for my 10:25 class.  I haven't even made it to the office, before I am stopped by a student with a question on the homework assignment.  Reality sets in, the chaos ensues, and I begin my day of multi-tasking.

But my center is lower than it was when I first fumbled for my keys this morning.  I can feel my feet on the ground.  I'm breathing a little more slowly and deeply, and my shoulders are a bit more relaxed.  I memorize the sensation, in an attempt to prolong it and perhaps even make it permanent.

Wishful thinking?  Probably.  I know the tension will creep back in.  I know my center will begin to rise, as the day progresses.  And at some point, I will most likely realize that my feet are no longer touching the ground.

But tomorrow at 7:00 AM, I will start afresh.  And after I have tried, for the 41st time, to remember which key opens the door, I will step, once more, into that sacred space.

For three hours, I will have the luxury of focusing on just one thing.

For three hours, I will breathe, lower my center, release the tension in my shoulders and the song in my heart.

For three hours, it will be me and Bertha and Wilfred and my coffee mug.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com