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

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.

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