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.

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.

yes

My phone rang this morning.
And I didn't want to answer it.

I was 1.5 hours into a 7-hour practice day. I have several binders of music to learn. And with 10 practice days left before it all has to be performable, things are just a wee bit stressful.

But, then again, I survived 75 voice finals last week...without the aid of coffee, wine, or really, any amount of practicing...and with the help of 2 bottles of cough syrup, 2 cartons of grapefruit juice and and far too many cough drops.   So, anything is possible, right?

Still, I didn't want to answer the phone.

Somebody probably needs an accompanist, and I don't want it to be me.  I was up late last night, and I've been playing a lot lately, and I'm still trying to get healthy, and I'm attempting to be ready to move out of my apartment next week, and I have to bake a birthday cake for a friend, and I would just like to be home for an evening....and.....a million other things...

So, obviously, I answered the phone.

It was a voice teacher friend of mine. Her student had won a special award at the music festival that took place here this week (Thomas Hampson established the award in honor of his former teacher). And, he had been selected to perform at the honors concert.  Tonight.  And, his accompanist was unavailable.

Usually, I say no to these things.
I don't like doing things last minute.
I have enough music on my plate right now.

But it was a piece I knew and could probably play in my sleep.
And I live five minutes from the theater.
And I do happen to be free this evening.
And, most of all, this kid deserves to sing.  He deserves the chance to tell his story.  He deserves to be celebrated.  He deserves the chance to share his gift.

So, obviously, I said yes.
And, obviously, I'm glad I did.

Because I got to empower someone tonight.  I got to give him the gift of possibility.  And he took it and ran with it.

Sure, if I hadn't said yes, someone else might have played.  So maybe he still would have gotten a chance to sing and tell his story and share his gift and be celebrated.

But I got to be a part of the story-telling.
I got to be a part of the celebration.
I got to enable him to shine.
I got to help him share his gift.
I got to receive some of the blessing.


My phone rang this morning.
And I'm glad it did.