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.

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

the gift of presence

"Then I sit quietly for a while, appreciating the beauty of the place, looking at or handling sacred objects on my table. Mostly what I keep are small gifts from people, things that remind me that my presence has mattered, that I have touched people, that I am connected, that I am so incredibly blessed."

 - Sabbath, Wayne Muller

Over the last 10 years, I have been diligent to keep the Sabbath. That is to say, I set aside 24 hours each week to rest - no practicing, no homework, no to-do-lists, no technology.  I am quite convinced that this practice has kept me alive, healthy, sane. 

And in the last few weeks, I have been learning the importance of Sabbath seasons.  I haven't had one in at least 4 years, maybe longer.  I was talking with a friend this week, a member of my former small group - the same group that walked with me as I attempted to work full time AND apply to graduate school simultaneously (this involved starting my practice time at 6AM every day).  "You haven't rested in a long time" - and she should know...she watched me struggle to keep my eyes open each week during small group.

I picked up a new book on the Sabbath last month, and I have enjoyed exploring different perspectives and Sabbath traditions. This morning's nugget seemed to leap off the page.  The author was describing the Sabbath practices of a friend of his (named Mary, no less). The above quote describes a portion of her Sabbath morning ritual.

One phrase resonated deeply with me: things that remind me that my presence has mattered.

I find it interesting that she says her "presence."  Not what she's done.  Not what she's given.  Not even what she's spoken.  Just simply her existence. The fact that she showed up. The fact that she shared a space with others, breathed the same air.

Isn't this what we all want to know?  Not even that we are wonderful or amazing, but simply that we matter. That something is lost if we are not present.  That there is intrinsic value in us that is involuntary, independent of our actions.  That our presence has had an effect, whether we intended it or not. That we are connected, in ways that cannot be put into words.  We are each made in the image of God, and when we rub shoulders, we cannot help but pass on a little bit of the divine.

As I have sorted through my belongings during my moving process, I have come across boxes of letters, cards, messages scrawled on scratch paper.  The written word has always been the most powerful love language in my life - and this collection of notes speaks of my need to know that my presence is needed - necessary.  So I hold tightly to them, to remind myself that I have mattered - and to fuel my hope that I can matter again.

And as I reflect on those who have affirmed my value, I am suddenly aware of the power we hold over others.  It doesn't take much to affirm someone's value.  A squeeze of the hand.  An arm around the shoulders.  A held gaze.  A simple sentence:   "I'm glad you're here."  "I've missed you."

It doesn't take much.  But the effects are far-reaching.

And it's made me think about the souls that will be present in my classroom this fall.  I was a bit overwhelmed to learn this week that there could be as many as 50 of them.  I will be studying my picture roster every night, attempting to learn names.  They will come and they will go - and I may not know all their stories by the end of the semester.  But I hope and pray that in some small way, I can communicate to them that they matter - not just their work or their opinions or their contribution to class discussion or their grades. Just their presence.