Wheels

One of the things that always gets my attention in England is how many wheels you see out in the world of the non-automobile variety.  Even though aspects of American-style suburban auto-based life (shopping and commuting) have increased over the years (and I saw some impressive traffic jams in London last week), people do still generally seem to rely on trains and buses, walking, cycling, walking their children in strollers (push chairs over here) and pulling their groceries in wheeled shopping carts.  The constant swirl of life is as much on the sidewalk (pavement) as it is in the streets; as many errands as possible are done locally, around the corner.

I was thinking a bit yesterday about different sorts of wheels -- the "wheels" moving in the brains of creative and scientific geniuses.  Last night on the BBC, there was a program about scientists' efforts to explore and explain dark matter and dark energy.  Through the visual metaphors of scientists sitting on trains and looking out the window, or at the water's edge looking out at the horizon, the program's producers effectively, I think, communicated how much creative scientific thought is happening "invisibly" -- in the brain.  The composer I have written about, Herbert Howells, was outrageously prolific.  He sketched out pieces on the train, into the composition books of his students, or while waiting for supper to be put on the table.  The wheels were constantly turning.  The formal scientific equations and musical scores that result from this kind of work represent probably only a miniscule percentage of the "energy" expended by these extraordinary men and women; scientists, artists, creative people in all media, and academic and spiritual writers and thinkers.  And yet what the world may see is someone "merely" staring out the window, into space.

Kind of makes me proud, in my own small way, to be one of them.  Some of us should wear tee shirts that say, "Quiet, please, my inner wheels are turning." 

Portals

There is something about staking a claim to a dream that earlier in my life would have seemed rather off-putting, but I have since grown to expect, even love.  It's the imperfection of it all. 

When it's no longer enough to do those smaller, symbolic acts (listening to webcasts of the music you love, carving out of small "retreat" moments at the coffee shop, the beach chair in the snow, borrowing a little red car -- even visualizing a good job or healing), it is so tempting to hope for perfection on the next step of the journey.  We've all worked hard and deserve a little perfection.  And yet this is the earth plane.  The next step is bound to be delightfully, messily, imperfect.

This visit to England has started in Cambridge, and it was such good fortune that King's College's services extended through Easter (most of the college chapels are on break.) Yes, I was truly in Liz heaven, with three evening services in four days.  To get good seats required arriving quite early to queue up and -- two of the days -- being pelted by penetrating cold rain and wind, from which I am still warming up.  Then at one of the services, I ended up sitting near a couple who decided to get into a sotto voce argument during the singing of the canticles.  I mean, really?  You are within feet of one of the best choirs in the world, and you are missing out and distracting everyone around you? Despite a barrage of pointed looks from one and all, they continued whispering for a few more minutes.  I think when I was younger, I might have gone away dissatisfied that these people had "ruined" the whole experience.  But the joy of 60 is, hey, you're just glad to be there.  You're glad to be anywhere, period.  In the end, what I focused on were the miracles: hearing this choir again in person, meeting an American student as enthusiastic about choral evensong as I am (and with whom I have a number of friends in common) and, probably, most memorably, the fact that after Easter evensong they opened the enormous West doors of the chapel for people to exit from.  The rain had stopped, and an ethereal pale yellow light suffused the door and the glorious stained glass window above. Walking toward and through this towering portal left me quite breathless.  For about five minutes, I took in the misty "Backs," feeling almost like I was having an out-of-body experience.  Eventually, there was nothing to be done but to walk around the front court, out the gate, and into the cacophonous Cambridge streets. I had been through a portal all right, but I'm just not sure yet what it all means.

When life gives you the opportunity to make a dream just a little more real, go for it, even if there is great imperfection mixed in with the perfection, even if it is in a brief or limited way.  In a world that sometimes seems to have too few miracles, whatever step you take toward your dream is a miracle. And it's important to see how the world looks from that new "place" on the other side of the portal.

Fast-moving river

Despite what I said the other day, it seems clear that throwing myself into a new "stretch of river" will provide much to write about, and that you may hear from me somewhat more often. 

It wasn't until last night after supper that I turned on British TV, and the coverage of Brussels, the first I've seen.  What struck me was the intense emotion of it.  I'm sure hundreds of authors have analyzed better than I ever could the different perspective Americans have on events in most of the world.  Our physical distance makes it easier to observe, not participate, unless we actively choose to.  U.S. news reporters speaking of these fast-moving events in Europe and elsewhere sound concerned.  Reporters here sound way beyond "concerned."  They are not looking at events, they are in the midst of them.  However tenuous, Europe as a construct means relationship, and everyone over here is in the midst of trying to find a way to be "in relationship" -- a whole different set of relationships than perhaps we in America put our energies into. 

As I build up the courage to write about anything publicly, much less the meaning behind current events, it may be inevitable that my American impulse to stay at a distance stays in place for the time being.  But on this Good Friday, I am just trying to remind myself of my belief that we are eternal beings "having a human experience." (I've heard a number of spiritual teachers say those words, so I'm not quite sure who to cite.) If I am such a proponent of people finding their true work and worth, it's in part because we don't know what our earthly future will bring at any given moment, so let's not put it off! Today, after two days of hearing some of the most glorious church music imaginable, I am actually going to attend the noon service at a smaller parish church with a non-professional choir.  It may be just the right place to be reminded in an unadorned fashion that, in the end, there is no death.  Physically present or not, we will always be part of that fast-moving river. 

Being here now

One disadvantage of writing a blog post early in the morning, before hearing the news, is that you can sound absolutely clueless.  Such was the case in my last post, which I wrote before hearing about the attacks in Brussels.  There are so many tragic aspects to these events, not the least of which is their capacity to drain all of our joy, blunt our good news, or the time we could be spending improving the world.  There is so much to say about this event, and choices to make and things to learn in this process of writing a regular blog. I hope you know that even when I am not addressing the news directly, these events have a big impact on the soul level and, eventually, in my writing.

But there is another topic trying to express itself today, which may not be totally unrelated.  For a few years, I have been a proponent of bringing one's dreams to life, even in a limited way, immediately.  It can seem like the right thing to do to work on a multi-year schedule, and plan step-by-step -- and for many people this may work.  Yet that can lead to the despair of thinking a dream is too "big" to achieve.  Finding some smaller immediate way to achieve it is very powerful.  If you want to open a bed-and-breakfast, why not invite your best friends over for the weekend and treat them like royalty?  If you want to live on a tropical island but you live in northern New England, pull out the deck chair to the side of a frozen lake in January, put on the sunglasses, and drink champagne!  If you want to go on retreat, take the journal to a coffee shop.  If you want a fancy red car, rent one for the weekend.  You get the picture.  Don't let people tell you this is getting you nowhere.  It is getting you somewhere -- it's like putting a flag in the ground to claim your dream.  It's aligning you with it.

So it's in that spirit that I just managed, through several blessings and synchronicities, to get myself over to England for a short-ish visit, even in the midst of events across the Channel.  Upon arriving yesterday morning, I took the tube into London and by late afternoon was attending choral evensong at St. Paul's Cathedral.  Today, I will attend a service at King's College, Cambridge. I am, literally, right in the middle of my world. There are so many joys to being here, so many reasons for gratitude, but one of them is throwing out the ticking clock.  You're in your dream today, this minute, be it looking at the fan vaulting and listening to the choir, or sipping the champagne, or writing some true words, or lovingly serving your best friends.  That is all that matters for today.  Being here now.  I know somebody else said that, but since I'm not sure who, I'll say it too!  And when you plant your flag, I believe it gets easier and easier to string together the smaller miracles into a bigger one.

Happy 100!

This is my one hundredth post.  When I started this blog a little over six months ago, I think I planned to write every day, which would have brought us to one hundred much sooner, but it really works to write every two to four days.  It is a delight to have you along with me, dear readers.  The "Choral Evensong" surge has died down a bit and I am back to a slow and steady crowd of you, but it's always interesting to see readers cropping up in unexpected countries as the weeks progress.

There was news this last week or so that the number of single adult women in America has exceeded the number of married adult women for the first time.  Not having too many 20- or 30-something friends, this came as a surprise to me, since the vast majority of my 60-something friends are married.  I am glad that younger women can really envision and try all life possibilities.  Still, single at 60 may always be a bit surreal, especially when you have no children or grandchildren.  The traditional way of being glued to the world and to posterity doesn't apply.  We single women are pioneers in carving out a new way of influencing the future.

I felt like a proud mama or grandma this week, though.  Over social media, I saw evidence of more and more opportunities in the UK for young girls to sing in cathedral and college chapel choirs.  What would have been inconceivable fifty years ago may not yet be the norm, but it's getting there.  When I see a photo of one of these girls' choirs, or hear them as I have at the St. Thomas (NY) Girls Choir Course or at Ely Cathedral, my heart almost bursts with pride.  These girls are my daughters, my granddaughters.  And, in a sense, they are me.

Last night, my inner chorister came out, as I listened to a YouTube recording of the dramatic Langlais Messe Solonnelle with the amazing Marie Claire Alain at the organ.  Well, listened isn't quite the right word.  I sang along to multiple voice parts and even the organ, pounding out the pedal parts with my feet on the floor, trying to be almost a one woman choir and cathedral organ.  There was a time when it might have made me quite sad that, once again, I was listening to recordings from afar, and not a central actor.  But do you know what?  That's over. How many women know that piece by heart, never having sung it?  How many women are presumptuous enough to have spent fifty years singing along to recordings of the best choirs in the world?  I was a happy woman.  If I carved out a real singing niche for even one more young girl by doing it, or just sent a few joyous energies out into the Universe, then I am even happier.  And hey, if there is one man on this planet who wouldn't find this "weird," who could burst with pride over me, then even I might change my mind about staying single. (This being a new stretch of river and all...!)

Have a good week, everyone.

Choices

Two nights ago, there was the most astonishing sunset.  Words cannot express it (have you ever tried?!)  It was one of those sunsets that looked like a Thomas Cole or Albert Bierstadt painting...or even like one of my small sunset oil paintings, painted years ago from photographs.  Brilliant yellows, oranges, neon pinks, purples...but of course what amazes is how quickly the scene evolves.  The clouds change, the colors morph.  Before color photography, how did the 19th century painters capture a moment that did not stand still? 

I was transfixed by this sunset for over a half an hour, and would go so far to say that it wasn't so much a case of looking "at" it as being "in" it.  To use the radio station metaphor from my blog the other day, I stumbled across a station that came in loud and clear, so much so that I aligned with the "music" almost completely.

But of course when the sun dropped behind the mountains, there was a return to normal life, washing a few dishes, turning on a few lights.  I had decided to watch a movie, and sat down to do that, suddenly realizing that I was literally being bombarded with repugnant imagery from trailers of Hollywood films.  I guess someone has decided that gender equity equals dressing women up as curvaceous killers and setting them loose on the world.  Note to executives -- that is not me, that is not virtually any woman, and I can choose to ignore these films.  So to the best of my ability, I did, scrolling through with my eyes closed until I reached the actual movie, which was rather mediocre but at least had some good 19th century period fashion and historical interest.  It was the visual equivalent of mood music.

The point is, over about three hours, I turned the radio "dial" and resonated deeply with the music of one station, not at all with the music of a second, and in kind of a distant, distracted way with a third.  Another person might have momentarily glanced at the sunset, sat riveted watching the movie trailers, then turned off that movie.  We are all making choices like these every day, aren't we?  On this first day of spring, I celebrate all these options, but most of all, I celebrate my power to choose.

It's all music

Do some of you remember back to the 1960's, when in the middle of the night, you could turn on your transistor radio when it was clear outside, and scan the dial, and find radio stations from all over the place?  Whereas during the day, you might just get a few local stations, at night, the world was at your fingertips.  I remember in the summer at our cabin on Lake Champlain, sitting under the covers turning the little dial, and, remarkably, hearing stations from Long Island, the Midwest, Montreal, and occasionally I remember getting a European station.  It was like magic! 

I've been playing around a lot recently with the idea that everything is music, everything is its own radio station.  The geese flying north again, the wind in the trees, the plants starting to come through the cold ground, the background chatter and coffee grinder at the coffee shop, the political "discourse" (!), the kids running down the street laughing, even the color of the sunset and the smell of dinner cooking.  Somewhere, recently (and I'm sorry that I don't remember where!) a neat notion was proposed -- that the magnetic energy we are putting out to the Universe is the energy of that space right in front of our faces.  If we are smiling, bubbling with happiness and joy, laughing and energized, we will draw to us people and situations of the same quality.  If our faces are contorted with anger, frustration, pain, or fear, we will draw to ourselves more of the same.  Today, I'm just extending this a little to think of it as our personal radio station.  What music are we playing?  What kind of "listeners" will we draw to ourselves?  And what kinds of radio stations are we listening to? What possesses us sometimes to turn on stations with music we find dissonant, and then get upset that it is so dissonant, rather than change the channel?  I'm definitely finding that as it becomes easier to identify the music I like, those "stations" are coming in loud and clear and I'm just spending less time listening to music I don't like, which doesn't come in clearly anyway.  Hmm... Seems like a concept that it shouldn't have taken 60 years to figure out, but better late than never!

Have a great day everyone!

Barometer

At the folk concert I went to last week, the three singers joked about how hard it is to write happy songs...that most of the most successful songs seem to be about heartbreak, broken dreams, etc.  It's true, and it's hard to find a lot of good "happy" literature, film, poetry...it's equally hard to even appreciate the good when it comes into our lives, or to discuss it when it does without seeming unrealistic, or insensitive to others.

I don't have time to write today, but I thought of this after this morning's quick scan of the news, social media, etc., where there is so much to be heartbroken about.  It can be hard to really believe that the underpinning of the world is love.  And yet my inner barometer is telling me, improbably, that there is far, far more love in our world than we are being exposed to.  Is tragedy and heartbreak a habit that we can actually break? Can we exercise our "love" muscle, and actually make happy songs and positive news the norm?  I guess for today, I'll just put that query out there!

The new stretch of river, continued

Well, if I needed proof that I have entered a "new stretch of river" (and to those of you who have been following this blog, I am sorry for overusing this metaphor, but it's just working for me!), I found it this morning when I opened up this blog to find that several hundred people have read my blog in the last few days.  This is because the great folks at choralevensong.org published a link to the piece I wrote last fall called "Choral Evensong."  Please check out the site, particularly if you are planning a trip to the UK, so that you can hear some of the best music in the world.

I've almost relished the relative obscurity of writing to a small audience of a few dozen, probably most of them my friends!  When you are used to being invisible, there's a bit of an electric shock when the limelight suddenly shines upon you, even to a small degree.  From the perspective of this new stretch of river, I can see how I got used to kind of navigating from safe eddy to safe eddy on the side of the stream, with occasional forays out into the flowing water, only to retreat back into side harbors.  My little boat sputtered and sometimes went in circles, but somehow I did manage to make forward movement.  I made it to the important "age 60" lock, and have risen to a new stretch of river.

My plans for this new stream are so expansive, I've can't even imagine how on earth I can even make the next step, much less achieve them all.  But I'm trying to remind myself, don't look back to the old stretch of river for sustenance on this new stretch.  There will be new riches, new forms of abundance, new people, new opportunities.  The water is moving quickly here, the landscape is totally different , and I just need to stay present with where I am and where I want to go, not where I have been.

Just a nod to my brother Andrew, today, who was a sailor, as I am in a small way.  This metaphor seems to be requiring me to envision myself in a little motorboat, not a sailboat, which goes against all my instincts about impacting the environment!  But for now, the loving stream of Divine energy seems to be calling for this "river" image, not the lake one of my childhood experience...in itself, perhaps, proof of entering new territory.  Andres, I trust that your new territory includes a really, really huge lake to explore!

Have a great weekend, all!

Today, I love my life

It's finally happening.  I'm finally reaching the point where I'm enjoying the process almost as much as the results.  It took a long time, but there's nothing like being on a "new stretch of river" to liberate that old part of you that was focusing on specific results.  The results never quite come out exactly as you plan anyway, do they?  I'm liking the concept of this new stretch of river...even though the sailor in me finds it a bit linear.  But for the moment, I'm committed to this powerfully flowing waterway, and will just simply love as much of the process as I can.  It's been a while since things moved quickly -- so when fears arise about that, I guess the trick is to stay calm, keep focused, and let the boat and the river do the major work.

Last night, I went to a great concert: Patty Griffin, Sara Watkins and Anais Mitchell.  What was fun was that they collaborated, singing with and accompanying each other.  They have rather different styles, and it was a process for them of branching out and growing with each other.  I particularly loved Sara's fiddle playing and plaintive, powerful voice.  I can't help it.  I love it when women find their niches and live them (and sing them) literally and visibly on stage! My oldest friend from childhood has been doing this kind of singing her whole life, and is such a heroine for me.  Sometimes I think that the world could be transformed overnight just by one man or woman singing over the chaos.  Perhaps a man and woman singing together would be ideal...

The northeast is transitioning from rather frigid but dry into warm and dry.  It's early for spring here, so no doubt more blizzards are coming.  But the melting is happening within this year, and I welcome it.  Today, I love my life.

The new stretch of river

I don't know about any of you, but almost every time I have started to take a significant step the last few years, my little "boat" has almost been swamped -- and in my case, I won't attribute the turbulence to any outside forces trying to stop me, the devil, or any energy except the fears and old patterns within me. 

What a weekend! In addition to the melting down I referred to in the last blog, I had a moment where the events of my junior year of college came back to me in full force, and I saw with clarity how certain beliefs and patterns had become entrenched at that time, arguably holding me back in significant ways for forty years.  Now, the writer and historian in me would love to analyze this in exquisite detail.  I mean, it is actually totally fascinating.  And my inner "coach" came up with an exercise yesterday, whereby I might have done a little ritual to release "the old."

And yet, in the end, I decided not to do either one.  Not right now, and maybe not ever.  It was important to acknowledge the revelation I had, and to feel some of the feelings that came up.  And it makes a certain amount of sense that this would happen once I had a slight bit of distance from the old stretch of river.  A few more of these "aha's" may be coming in upcoming weeks.  But to focus much more than that on patterns that I do not wish to repeat on this new stretch of river would be counterproductive.  The "temptations" I've experienced at key moments are, to wallow in painful memories, to give in to fear and exhaustion (frighteningly easy at 60!), and to give my power away.  There's only one way to avoid these things: to the best of my ability, I just turn my face forward to the new stretch of river, try to feel the guiding energies of love and joy, and navigate only by them. In the midst of the melting down, I have actually been connecting with the people I need to connect with, and making the plans I wish to make.  What a blessing! 

Meltdown

This morning, I had a bit of a meltdown.  Perhaps it was inevitable.  To extend my "lock" metaphor, when those upper gates open, and there's all that turbulence in the water and you look ahead and realize that you have committed to a new stretch of river when it really would be a whole lot easier just to back your boat back into the lock and go backwards....you may have a meltdown.  What I keep having to remind myself of is that I don't have the power to go forward on my own.  A smooth passage down the river can only happen if I am aligned with the Divine, so mostly what I need to do is maintain that alignment and then "chop wood, carry water." Keep the rudder steady.  Keep the boat going forward. Don't give up.  Do the next thing, some small thing, whatever it is.

But what brought the tears to my eyes a little while ago was a "StoryCorps" story on NPR about a gay couple who had been together since the mid-70's but because of living in Arkansas and the work of one of the men, they had had to keep their relationship secret all that time, until getting married recently.  If I heard the account correctly (I was listening in the midst of making breakfast), one of them had kept a separate apartment, pretending like he was living there, entertaining there, etc., just so people wouldn't know where he really lived, who he really was, who he really loved.  When you think of the money spent, the psychic energy expended, over whole lifetimes, to try to be "normal," to hide one's real truth, it is just so tragic. I can so relate.

The parallel with my life may be a slight stretch, but only slight.  I'm not a lesbian, but "coming out of the closet" can take many forms.  You reach a point where you just cannot not be yourself one more minute -- which may be why so much social change is happening now, so quickly.  The momentum of people having the courage to stand up and be themselves is growing. 

My organ-playing skills are so rusty, and arthritis in my thumbs makes it unlikely that I will retrieve that thread of my lifelong English church music dream.  And my voice isn't quite what it was even a few years ago, so singing choral evensong will likely come only in the summer or on a substitute basis.  But I haven't lost my passion for the music itself, my particular interest in the music of Herbert Howells, and this indefinable curiosity about the spiritual power of specific places in that country.  Writing and perhaps painting or expressing creatively in other forms is still an option.  I'm throwing myself into the river knowing that I just must focus, not on the love and time lost, but on timeless love expressed and fulfilled just as well as one can, now!  Now is the only time that matters. 

I do apologize this week...my blog is being written in a coffee shop to the backdrop of bad eighties disco music.  (Smile!)

Leaving the Lock

A few weeks ago, I spoke of the last few months, metaphorically, like being in a lock in a river, where my boat had to come to a halt, heavy doors closed behind, and then waiting for the water to rise and bring my boat to a higher level. (Sorry, bad grammar, but it's been that kind of week!)

Well, I guess all I can say is that sort of "ready or not, here I come" style, the water has reached the top of the lock, and the metal doors in front of me are opening, and I'm committed.  Just about to head down the new stretch of river.  OK, I won't say I'm calm and collected.  I'm not.  I won't say I am ready.  I am probably not.  All I am doing is trying to give the Universe the opportunity to make more of my dreams come true.  And giving myself permission to navigate closer to the center of my own river this time rather than in the eddies at the river's edge. I can feel the turbulence under the boat as I exit the chamber of the lock.  After a period of calm, it feels bumpy.  But I'm blessing it.  I'm alive and there is new territory ahead.  I feel such gratitude.