here's to the mess we make

Today I marched.

We came armed with instruments: a banjo, a jingle fish, a frog rasp, some spoons, and our voices. And we sang the whole way.

I was reminded of one who went before us. I had the honor of sharing the stage with him once, albeit not in the traditional sense. He shuffled up to the podium in his tweed coat, and glanced back at the sea of graduates behind him on the stage. There was joy in his eyes, as he paused to take us all in, a new generation of musicians, ready to raise our voices. And in that moment, I felt the mantle pass.

His remarks were simple and brief.
"If there is a human race here in a few hundred years, I think one of the few things to save it from its own foolishness will be the arts."

And so we carried his mantle today. We stepped out as artists and did what we do best. For the better part of an hour, we sang the words that he made famous (he did so together with his banjo that "surrounded hate and forced it to surrender").

Finding myself the caller, I started with his verses. We shall overcome. We'll walk hand-in-hand. We are not afraid. We shall live in peace. But as we continued to sing, new words poured from my lips. We shall live in hope. We shall be the light. We shall speak the truth. We shall live in joy. We shall live in love. I will stand with you. We shall overcome.

Others chanted. Some cheered. Many carried signs. And we sang on.

Gathering at the end of the march, we welcomed the crowd with our music. We circled up, and our numbers began to grow, our sound multiplying as more voices joined our ranks.

Truth be told, I did not agree fully with everyone that I marched with. But honestly, that was the beauty of it. I don't have to agree with you to love you, to stand with you...

...or to sing with you.

See, there's something about music, about singing, in particular. It shatters your defenses, and brings unity in a way that few things can. There is something about raising our voices together in song. There is something other-worldly about it. There is something heavenly about it.


This week, I made my annual appearance at a movie theater and saw La La Land. It had been billed to me as one of those "every-artist-needs-to-see-it" kind of films, though I honestly didn't know much about it. I think I was expecting it to be a feel-good-Hollywood-ending kind of experience. What I got was a journey through the war of art.

I found myself tearing up many times throughout the film, the conversations and experiences of the characters resonating so deeply with my own life experience. But what finally sent the tears flowing was the scene in which one of the characters is trying to get the other to come back for one more audition...probably her one-thousandth. The two argue a bit, and he finally says, "Why won't you do it?"

"Because it hurts too much."

In the scene that follows, she sings a song that traces her journey as an artist.

A bit of madness is key to give us new colors to see 

Who knows where it will lead us?
And that's why they need us

So bring on the rebels 

The ripples from pebbles 

The painters, and poets, and plays 

And here's to the fools who dream 

Crazy, as they may seem 

Here's to the hearts that break 

Here's to the mess we make

It is indeed messy in my studio. The floor is littered with wrong notes and failed phrasings and tears. I spent awhile crying with Mozart this week. I may have yelled at Schubert a time or two. I fought some battles in myself, even just getting myself to that bench to begin with...let alone keeping my butt planted on it for any length of time.

But here's to the mess. Because today in that crowd of people, I knew for myself, This is what I can do. This is what I must do. Because Pete was right: we need those crazy artists and the foolish dreamers. Because it's hard to argue with each other when you're singing together.

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.

I have decided

I have decided to find myself a home

in the mountains, somewhere high up

where one learns to live peacefully in

the cold and the silence. It's said that

in such a place certain revelations may

be discovered. That what the spirit

reaches for may be eventually felt, if not

exactly understood. Slowly, no doubt. I'm

not talking about a vacation.

Of course at the same time, I mean to 

stay exactly where I am.

Are you following me?

- Mary Oliver

Go to the limits of your longing

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,

then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,

go to the limits of your longing.

Embody me.

Flare up like a flame

and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

Just keep going. No feeling is final.

Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

 - Rainier Maria Rilke

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

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.