Water

Water.

So beautiful...until it isn't. 

May all who are in the path of this storm find something to hold onto, and connect or reconnect with people they love,

Time Travel

I've just finished a rather good book, Melodie Winawer's The Scribe of Siena. It checks off almost all my boxes (female protagonist, set mostly in the Middle Ages, mystery, fair amount of reference to monastic life) and after a slightly slow start, it really engaged me. The hook of this novel is actually that the heroine is a contemporary New York neurosurgeon who, through inheriting her brother's Italian home, becomes immersed in his historical research and eventually travels back in time. Sometimes time travel books are a little awkward and this one has its moments, but still, I believe.

In a sense, I suppose my whole experience with England has been a form of time travel, since my "vehicle" is usually a five hundred year old service sung in spaces that may be a thousand years old. I am so intrigued by our ability to step out of modern life -- be it in a historical setting, through music or art, or in nature -- and step into another era. Informally, I think most of us do this quite often; it's an open question as to whether we can literally move through time. Winawer's concept is that "the person is the portal, not the place..." (338) It may not be a case of standing near the right tree or on platform 9 3/4. It may simply be love, the longing to love. That word again.

Sometimes I actually have that feeling that I've time travelled back into the 21st century from some future date. I'll read or watch the news and think, goodness, don't tell me things are still so barbaric! It's like I know in my bones a far more advanced way of being, and am bewildered to find myself in the Dark Ages. However, if Winawer is right, then only one thing brought me back in time and keeps me here(!) Hmm...

Have a great weekend, whether you travel forward or back in time or space, or just read a good book...

Pre-zinging

Since I last wrote, we have had an eclipse, and the extreme energetic equivalent in a number of world events. I am seeing some of the strongest "contrasts" (Abraham-Hicks-speak) I've ever seen in my lifetime, from the most hopeful and beautiful to the most distressing and vile -- and of course, in this internet connected world, we may jump back and forth within seconds from one emotion to another. I suspect that sociologists and psychologists of the near future will speak of this time, when humans began to have nearly simultaneous access to the widest ever levels of feeling. Some people can only feel the lowest ones, perhaps, and others the highest ones, and then many of us are in the middle, trying valiantly to experience and make sense of the whole spectrum.

I just had this interesting thought. If everything is energy, everything on some level is music. What if all these events are a form of music? What if the earth is emanating literally chord after chord of music as these events take place and as we react to them, however we do it? What if we could step back just enough from time to time and listen to the music? "Why, hmm, that's an interesting chord! That's an interesting melody." What if the earth has quite literally never been as musically alive as it is now, as an entity? 

The Queen of the Softish landing has done it again, and it's not quite a flower bed for brilliant blooming and zinging, but I'd call it good for pre-zinging. I'm being safely held and, as you can see, finding words for new thoughts. The music I'm hearing may not be my favorite Howells Mag and Nunc, but I'm still here to "hear" and I'm grateful. Part of my problem for thirty-plus years was that I didn't approach my life as the musician I am. It's not just about singing or playing your instrument, it is about a life dedicated to harmony and listening and creating beauty and being one with your gift at all times. It's about not pushing away the best part of you. I don't need to sing today, or even zing. But I need to walk out the door knowing I'm part of the music. That's pre-zinging, and pre-zinging is life too.  

"Nice Trip"

I'm on a roll today, a very non-day-of-rest-like roll. Be forewarned.

So for about the half-dozenth time since my return from England, someone has said to me, "Did you have a nice trip?" They mean well, but...

Nice trip? Nice trip? Are you kidding me? "Yes, I was truly myself for a week-and-a-half, thank you, and that sure is nice." Jeezum, as they say in the north country. 

Tomorrow, eclipse day, I need to move again from the lovely place I have been living, at least temporarily. It seems to have been a pattern of most of my visits to England that some kind of "move" follows. I mean, the fact is that I've never felt at home "at home" and getting to England stirs up my energy and reminds me who I am and upon my return, I no longer fit into my latest temporary lodgings. In a sense, I have been a fifth wheel all my life and am thus expendable. But -- ahem -- Law of Attraction proponent that I am, I realize that this belief system started early in me and is emanating from me. I have allowed myself to be expendable to me, to believe in this two-tiered system where completely aligning with myself was a rare moment, out of reach and "foreign," and that my norm was a deadened wasteland. I allowed it to be OK to compartmentalize, to have my feet on two different tracks, to have my "house for sale and for rent," to use my metaphor the other day. I figured there's nothing the world wants less than a brilliant woman with a passion for anything, much less a passion for an obscure foreign genre of music. Passion is power, and we women aren't exactly encouraged to be powerful. Better not to rock the boat. Better to fly back to the US each time, put on my cheery "isn't this an interesting spiritual journey I am on!" mask, find another temporary roof for my head, and just barely survive -- until the next "nice trip" to England.

So yeah, this most recent cycle of homelessness reminds me of one thing: this is all an inner game of which my external reality is only a reflection. The only person who can change the situation is me, not by racing around externally to "solve the problem" (it's not a problem, it's a life lesson gift). Not by trying to figure out "how to get back to England." I've done that for years now, and it hasn't led to anything permanent. No, the "solution" is making the decision between "house for sale" and "house for rent." The solution is making a decision between life and death. Going to England this time finally put me over the edge; I am no longer willing to suppress myself out of the fear that people won't like a passionate, powerful, alive me. I will accept nothing less than the energetic "feel" of being engaged, singing, zinging, intellectually stimulated, and with my tribe. There could well be a variation of this on this side of the Atlantic and from now on my primary commitment is to zinging. No more "nice trips." No more houses for rent. No more words unsaid or songs unsung. No taking seriously the frequent suggestion that I sign up for low-income senior housing and just fade into the woodwork. That house is for sale. I'm committed to being alive and powerful and passionate and in my best element and in integrity with my values. And you know? I don't think I'm the only 60-something woman uprooting herself until she finds the right soil. There are a whole lot of us spectacular flowers on the verge of blooming. 

It's happening...

I have agonized over this essay for three days now. To spend eleven days in England singing arguably the most celestial music ever written, then return to the States to what many of us would define as "hell" is surreal in the extreme. It leaves one nearly speechless.

Back when I taught at the community college, a unit on the Holocaust was a required part of one of my syllabi; most of my students thought that Nazism had been a one-time thing, and that it would never be possible in the US. I honestly didn't think it was likely either, but I did try to get students to think about how quickly trends or leaders can change, and what might happen if our freedoms were suddenly taken from us overnight. 

And here it is. It's happening. Cruel torch-wielding zombies and leaders devoid of honesty, honor or compassion are in the ascendant while those of us who are empathetic are fighting just to breathe. There is a reason I have never watched movies like this, because they just seem too real.

I still believe what I said the other day. There's an ever-expanding black hole of hatred here that would like nothing better than to swallow all of us up, but the only thing it cannot digest is love. I cannot and will not love these monsters. They'll have to fend for themselves on this vile journey they've chosen. But I also cannot and will not emulate their rage. I stand up to hatred simply by being as calm, loving, truthful, harmonic and beautiful as I know how -- and most of all, courageous. 

House for Sale, House for Rent

The first thing I'll say this morning, as things seem to be about as overheated as they can get, is that I wish that hatred could be successfully "fought," but I just don't believe that it can. I'm seeing lists online, "ten things you can do to fight hate" kind of thing, and my own heart just cringes. It's natural to think that this is the thing to do, but I truly believe fighting just adds to the potential conflagration. I think the only antidote to hate, fear and death is love, genuinely loving something or someone. That isn't an easy feat in these turbulent days.

I don't know quite how this story relates, but I'll see if I can lead it in the right direction. Back in the mid-1980's, my parents had been living year 'round in our summer "camp" (Adirondack-speak for "cabin") and had the opportunity to move away to a real home. They wanted to sell the camp, but perhaps not wishing to lose any rental income, they would advertise that it was both for sale and for rent. Not surprisingly, given this confusion and the fact that they no longer wished to deal with the property, summer rentals went down and down. Finally, one summer in the mid-90's when barely any rentals were scheduled, I offered to stay in the cabin and work on it. This caused some family grumbling, but I think my parents finally agreed that there was merit to my argument that "The Universe" (God/Goddess/Universe/Source) doesn't respond well to mixed messages, and neither do people. The camp needed to be made as beautiful and saleable as possible, so that's what I set out to do: I swept, mopped, replaced 1930's era cot beds that were impossible to sleep on, made or arranged for minor repairs, and generally made this unique small camp into a delightful, comfortable place for the first time in years. I loved it. Indeed, I loved it too much, because when not one but three families came forward at the end of the summer with offers and it sold by year's end, I was heartbroken. And the heartbreak multiplied about a year later when the new owners took the camp down and built a modern one. I could never have bought it myself, and the heartbreak has never really gone away, but there was some satisfaction in being proved right. When love infused the building, it sold. When the message being sent into the world was loud and clear, "this beautiful, lovable cabin is for sale," it sold. (I have strangely been far more successful at helping people sell their houses than I have been creating a life that guarantees any kind of viable home for myself. Curious...but related. That's for another day.)

Maybe it's enough today, with a clarifying eclipse only a week away, to put it in the form of a query: where and how have our messages been confused or muddled? are we angry when we speak of love? do we sabotage the very things we want to do? Is our "house" for sale and for rent at the same time? I'll come back to this soon, because it's a good metaphor, isn't it? And you know me and metaphors...

Return

It is such a relief that there are others out there trying to articulate their world, our world, and to see the ways in which we all overlap. Martha Beck's Daily Inspiration for today spoke of "walking the labyrinth of life." That visual was especially good to read about today, because of all the overlapping circles and pathways that were engaged over the last two weeks. Perhaps the most subtly powerful was the fact that on Wednesday morning I took the number 441 bus from my hotel to Heathrow Terminal 5. This particular bus ultimately ends at Englefield Green, and is the very bus I took out to Royal Holloway back in September of 1980. That an almost identical red double-decker bus with (I believe) the same number is still running nearly 40 years later is oddly reassuring. 

My very much less mobile and comfortable feet and legs walked new paths but old territory (into and out of cathedral choir stalls). Nearly every mode of transportation known to man sped me on my way, from city buses to inter-city buses, to subways and private cars and airlines. I even had an unexpected, mystery return upgrade from cramped economy to the next level up, which has ruined me forever. The little sitting/sleeping pods were futuristic but exceptionally comfortable. I didn't sob uncontrollably all the way back like I did in 1981, or sit in my airplane seat numbly or grumpily anticipating my return to the US. I don't feel the despair that "I'll never sing English church music again." Yes, I'm already "homesick" but, you know, 61 gives you that blessed assurance that if you live to see even one more day, you never know what might happen. Let's face it: I sang the music I love again, there were women singing all around me and a woman conducting us. In my case, the story seems to begin when I sing!

It may take several weeks to fully sift through this time in England, and my current options. I have returned to an exceptionally unsettled situation both personally, and (as you know) nationally. Somehow, I know it's important in both cases to continue putting beauty and music and love out into the spaces around me. This isn't an instant replay of past returns to the States, it is its own unique iteration, part of a woven labyrinthine tapestry so complex and beautiful that I may never really get to appreciate it fully. 

Moon, stone, truth

Deborah O'Connor's wonderful occasional columns (http://lovedogdesign.com/LoveDogDesign/columns/columns.html) frequently bring me back to "reality." No, not the reality of jobs and cars and schedules, but the reality of truly being oneself. Yesterday, for the Aquarius full moon, she said that it is time to "engage with the purest truth of Self you can access now." This is the time for clarity and honesty about one's life. And as this Aquarian sits at a hotel near Heathrow, readying for a return to the States, everything certainly does feel clearer than it did two weeks ago.

The fact is that, not surprisingly, my cairn project did fall completely apart. The plan to build a little pile of stones, to thank England for many decades of beauty and meaning, and to release any further expectations about English church music and this place, was a goner from the moment I set foot on the sidewalk outside the airport. It wasn't just singing for a week at one of the world's most beautiful cathedrals, which was brilliant, but hard, and took every ounce of my intellect, voice and physical strength. It wasn't just meeting/re-meeting "my tribe" and becoming instant friends, or hearing Herbert Howells's music being played on the organ as I walked into another cathedral. It wasn't just that feeling of "ah, I'm home" at every step, or the scones and clotted cream for tea yesterday, or the feeling of utter alignment with myself and life. It wasn't just singing Anglican chant every day or eating friendly dinners over a glass of wine. It was that these moments spread out to fill entire days. When I am here, I always seem to be engaged all day long on so many levels. I am alive and fully me, giving everything I have. I fall asleep exhausted, not bored. Life is a joy when you are a seed falling on the proper soil. This flowering must be what we are born to do, if we dare.

So in the end, a little comically and inelegantly, my personal "ritual" involved writing a short gratitude affirmation on a piece of scrap paper, folding the paper around a heart-shaped stone, securing it with a purple rubber band, and throwing it deep into a huge, tangled bush. I don't think it will ever be found, but I know where it is. I literally "put it out there to the Universe" that I appreciatively commit to giving and receiving more of this love. I commit to singing again next summer, if not before. It's not what I expected to come out of this trip, but it is definitely the truth. 

A Peak Experience

I am doing something that I am quite sure is ill-advised: writing this blog at a jet-lagged three in the morning. But this "holiday" is hard work, what with over four hours of rehearsals and an hour's choral evensong service every day, and local bus travel to get from accommodation to cathedral...last night I managed to eat half a sandwich before falling asleep before 8 pm. Of course I'm up now, wide awake.

Probably every person on this planet has a different definition of what would be a peak experience for them. And mine actually happened at yesterday's service. I am singing in one of England's major cathedrals, in a group of excellent, experienced amateur singers. We were conducted at last night's service by the man who conducted Royal Holloway's choir when I was a student, and it was as if not one second had passed (instead of 36 years!) Singing in my right ear was a dear friend and professional singer, and we sang the extraordinary music of William Byrd. The choir was surrounded by a large, beautiful, and clearly appreciative congregation, and the sound was glorious. I could almost feel my entire body "zinging" (as well as singing).

I can't help but think that my British fellow singers cannot quite know what it is like for this to be such a rare moment, since choral evensong is so easily available to them to sing or hear in person. I confess that just now, I really "lost it." Despite all my confident plans for imbuing this trip with finality and closure, the effect has, of course, been just the opposite. I know when I'm in my element and in my tribe, and this is it. After all these years, I still don't get why I just can't simply be home, in my element. The answer must lie within me, but as of this writing, I cannot hear it.

Rocks of any size have been hard to find here in the ultra-civilized south of England, so whether my "cairn" moment will involve actually creating a pile of stones or simply burying a heart-shaped crystal I brought with me, I don't know. I guess I'll wing it in a few hours. But I know now the prayer I will say, the words of last night's hymn:

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,

Lead thou me on;

The night is dark and I am far from home,

Lead thou me on;

Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see the distant scene;

One step is enough for me.