As I've mentioned in the past, there are days when I feel like writing, but I don't know what it will be about. Today is one of those days. Rather than try to be left-brained, I think I'll write a poem. This has never been my forte, but heck, something new at sixty-two.
Today
I'm thankful
For a little dog to walk
As the sun comes up over the
Big lake.
Otherwise, it's silent.
The light is slanted low.
I'm trying to make big decisions but I'm only a
Newborn.
Doggie understands me.
His tail is wagging.
There are apples in the fridge.
Maybe I'll make
Applesauce
Today.
Thursday, August 30, 2018
Monday, August 27, 2018
Harmony II
As might have been expected, musing about my need for harmony and beauty seemed to elicit, over the weekend, kind of a "this is your life" inner video of a number of places and situations that haven't been harmonious and beautiful to me in the past. But it may also have helped me open to new forms of beauty. I was walking on a sidewalk and looked down to see what I initially thought was a dead butterfly, only it turned out to be a strange, filigreed piece of bark with a large "eye" on it. I picked it up and will keep it. This natural relic is hauntingly beautiful, and I might not have noticed it in the past.
But thinking about harmony also elicited a new metaphor. I haven't been very metaphorical in the last month or so, since my re-birth/move, so here goes: What if we thought of humanity as a huge choir? We are all sending out a song, that is for sure. To make the image more manageable, I thought, why not whittle down seven billion people to seventy, a large choir of all backgrounds, ages, genders, religions and musical abilities. I'm not sure what song would be sung in that circumstance, but let's say a brilliant conductor has brought everyone together and we know our parts, which are simple and beautiful. Despite everyone's best intentions, you can perhaps imagine a situation where some of the singers might get into a disagreement, even a violent fight. Others might join the melee. Some singers might stop singing to try to pull apart the combatants, others might help people who get hurt, others might lecture those who had resorted to violence. Some might protest the disruption or try to stop the rehearsal, others might pull out their cell phones to photograph or communicate the situation to the outside world, and others might simply walk out.
Is there one "correct" response to violence? Maybe not. And conflict may not be eradicated for generations to come. But I know myself well enough to know what role I would play as this rehearsal started to spiral out of control: I'd keep singing. I'd try to keep the music going. I'd try to keep my voice in harmony with at least a few other people, as long as the conductor was still up there conducting. On the days when I feel overwhelmed by our world's chaotic vocalizations, I try to remind myself, just keep singing your part, Liz. Just keep singing your part.
But thinking about harmony also elicited a new metaphor. I haven't been very metaphorical in the last month or so, since my re-birth/move, so here goes: What if we thought of humanity as a huge choir? We are all sending out a song, that is for sure. To make the image more manageable, I thought, why not whittle down seven billion people to seventy, a large choir of all backgrounds, ages, genders, religions and musical abilities. I'm not sure what song would be sung in that circumstance, but let's say a brilliant conductor has brought everyone together and we know our parts, which are simple and beautiful. Despite everyone's best intentions, you can perhaps imagine a situation where some of the singers might get into a disagreement, even a violent fight. Others might join the melee. Some singers might stop singing to try to pull apart the combatants, others might help people who get hurt, others might lecture those who had resorted to violence. Some might protest the disruption or try to stop the rehearsal, others might pull out their cell phones to photograph or communicate the situation to the outside world, and others might simply walk out.
Is there one "correct" response to violence? Maybe not. And conflict may not be eradicated for generations to come. But I know myself well enough to know what role I would play as this rehearsal started to spiral out of control: I'd keep singing. I'd try to keep the music going. I'd try to keep my voice in harmony with at least a few other people, as long as the conductor was still up there conducting. On the days when I feel overwhelmed by our world's chaotic vocalizations, I try to remind myself, just keep singing your part, Liz. Just keep singing your part.
Friday, August 24, 2018
Harmony
Yesterday, I had one of those "aha" moments that was really almost closer to a "duh!" moment. I don't really like that expression, but it's perfect for when something hits home that possibly should have years ago, and you feel a bit stupid not to have gotten it sooner. And this isn't much different than some of the conclusions I've drawn in previous blogs, just from a new perspective.
When you are a musician, an artist, and a writer, you are always conscious of harmony. Different factors can be made to work together -- whether musical lines, varied colors, or a string of words -- to create a coherent and pleasing whole. In English church music, the decani and cantoris don't fight one another across the center aisle, they respond to each other or sing together. In a piece of sacred music by Gabrieli, the brass or choral choirs in the balconies don't fight one another, they echo or complement each other. Even atonal musical works have an inner harmony. Painters strive for exquisite balance and harmony even in modern, less figurative works. Writers, poets, dancers...creative people of all stripes seek harmony. It is our bread and butter.
It suddenly hit me that it's a simple truth that I just do not function in situations that are not beautiful or that lack harmony. If there is a "vs." or "anti-" or fighting or fearful or competitive energy in the vicinity, I all but shut down. This isn't necessarily good, and certainly isn't practical. Many creative people have found ways to incorporate inharmonious or discordant realities into their lives and still do their thing. I don't seem to be able to do that. I am tuned to beauty. Period. It's a relief to embrace this, not as justification but rather as understanding. It's like having perfect pitch (which I don't quite have, but close) -- you feel in the core of your being the minute you are out of harmony, and staying "out of tune" is just simply excruciating. For me, trying to function in or focus on systems or situations that are competitive/inharmonious/ugly is excruciating. My natural instinct is to get back into tune with what feels harmonious, but I have too often ignored my own instincts in an effort to fit in at least a little to the culture at large. Heck, that hasn't worked, has it? So harmony it is, at least for this weekend. Have a good one, everyone.
When you are a musician, an artist, and a writer, you are always conscious of harmony. Different factors can be made to work together -- whether musical lines, varied colors, or a string of words -- to create a coherent and pleasing whole. In English church music, the decani and cantoris don't fight one another across the center aisle, they respond to each other or sing together. In a piece of sacred music by Gabrieli, the brass or choral choirs in the balconies don't fight one another, they echo or complement each other. Even atonal musical works have an inner harmony. Painters strive for exquisite balance and harmony even in modern, less figurative works. Writers, poets, dancers...creative people of all stripes seek harmony. It is our bread and butter.
It suddenly hit me that it's a simple truth that I just do not function in situations that are not beautiful or that lack harmony. If there is a "vs." or "anti-" or fighting or fearful or competitive energy in the vicinity, I all but shut down. This isn't necessarily good, and certainly isn't practical. Many creative people have found ways to incorporate inharmonious or discordant realities into their lives and still do their thing. I don't seem to be able to do that. I am tuned to beauty. Period. It's a relief to embrace this, not as justification but rather as understanding. It's like having perfect pitch (which I don't quite have, but close) -- you feel in the core of your being the minute you are out of harmony, and staying "out of tune" is just simply excruciating. For me, trying to function in or focus on systems or situations that are competitive/inharmonious/ugly is excruciating. My natural instinct is to get back into tune with what feels harmonious, but I have too often ignored my own instincts in an effort to fit in at least a little to the culture at large. Heck, that hasn't worked, has it? So harmony it is, at least for this weekend. Have a good one, everyone.
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
The vanguard
Yes, this space and time is as liminal as they come. I seem to specialize in such moments, when one foot is on one side of the gate and one on the other. It's an awkward place, but it's my nearly constant reality so I've gotten used to it.
So these times seem to nurture calm (see last blog), clarity and even an iota of courage. And today seems to be a good day to throw out a few more thoughts about money, ones that my readers may or may not thank me for. But when you have just moved or are moving, you are more aware than ever of what you have or don't have, financially, whether you can "afford" what you want to do or where you want to be, and, in my case, you simply come face to face with your deepest truths, yet again.
Despite the fact that I have almost the perfect storm for not succeeding financially (much of which I have already spoken of, so I won't here), I've been aware for a long time that the truth for me went much deeper than clichés about starving artists or limiting beliefs. I haven't really had the nerve to explore it, but here goes. The core of my issue is that I simply do not understand why humans use money in the first place.
I often try to go back in my mind to that first person who used money. Of course, I don't know who it was. But let's say it was an early farmer who had a bumper crop of corn. Perhaps his neighbor had had setbacks and needed corn, so the farmer said, "Here, take a pile of corn and give me something in return, or give me an IOU. When you have a surplus, you can give me crops that I need." From our modern perspective, this all seems quite logical, and we can see the progression from the ancient beginnings of trade to our modern complexities. Yet in that simple exchange, I sense fear, fear of the future, the farmer's fear that the future would not be so bright (and in farming that is not an unfounded fear).
But I have thought a lot about money, and I just cannot seem to get away from the sense that its use is essentially a "fear" function. I am not talking specifically about the world's two main economic systems here. But just the basic thought that money, or any kind of barter or trade, is necessary at all doesn't seem to be love-based. I don't get breaking everything up into units of worth and units of payment. I see all my gifts as coming from the heart of the divine, so I just don't understand thinking of them as "mine" and then charging money for them. I don't understand anyone looking at the natural resources of mother earth as "theirs" and charging money for them. In a post-dualistic worldview, if everything is part of one stream, the stream of love, then all we need to do is give freely, and what we need will come freely. And if it doesn't come freely, maybe we don't need it.
I haven't seen others talking about this yet, although I am sure it's out there, like everything else. I'm sure now that I've started to talk about it, I won't stop. But part of it is that I need to shout-out to all the artists, creative people, mystics, and all those currently in "poverty" for any reason whatsoever. It may be that the energy of trying to work in a fear-based system has worn us out. It may be that many of us are trying in our own way to do something right, to live in alignment with fearlessness and love. On the surface, our lives may look unsuccessful, but perhaps we are in the vanguard. The key may not be to "help" us or "fix" us, but to listen to us and learn from us.
So these times seem to nurture calm (see last blog), clarity and even an iota of courage. And today seems to be a good day to throw out a few more thoughts about money, ones that my readers may or may not thank me for. But when you have just moved or are moving, you are more aware than ever of what you have or don't have, financially, whether you can "afford" what you want to do or where you want to be, and, in my case, you simply come face to face with your deepest truths, yet again.
Despite the fact that I have almost the perfect storm for not succeeding financially (much of which I have already spoken of, so I won't here), I've been aware for a long time that the truth for me went much deeper than clichés about starving artists or limiting beliefs. I haven't really had the nerve to explore it, but here goes. The core of my issue is that I simply do not understand why humans use money in the first place.
I often try to go back in my mind to that first person who used money. Of course, I don't know who it was. But let's say it was an early farmer who had a bumper crop of corn. Perhaps his neighbor had had setbacks and needed corn, so the farmer said, "Here, take a pile of corn and give me something in return, or give me an IOU. When you have a surplus, you can give me crops that I need." From our modern perspective, this all seems quite logical, and we can see the progression from the ancient beginnings of trade to our modern complexities. Yet in that simple exchange, I sense fear, fear of the future, the farmer's fear that the future would not be so bright (and in farming that is not an unfounded fear).
But I have thought a lot about money, and I just cannot seem to get away from the sense that its use is essentially a "fear" function. I am not talking specifically about the world's two main economic systems here. But just the basic thought that money, or any kind of barter or trade, is necessary at all doesn't seem to be love-based. I don't get breaking everything up into units of worth and units of payment. I see all my gifts as coming from the heart of the divine, so I just don't understand thinking of them as "mine" and then charging money for them. I don't understand anyone looking at the natural resources of mother earth as "theirs" and charging money for them. In a post-dualistic worldview, if everything is part of one stream, the stream of love, then all we need to do is give freely, and what we need will come freely. And if it doesn't come freely, maybe we don't need it.
I haven't seen others talking about this yet, although I am sure it's out there, like everything else. I'm sure now that I've started to talk about it, I won't stop. But part of it is that I need to shout-out to all the artists, creative people, mystics, and all those currently in "poverty" for any reason whatsoever. It may be that the energy of trying to work in a fear-based system has worn us out. It may be that many of us are trying in our own way to do something right, to live in alignment with fearlessness and love. On the surface, our lives may look unsuccessful, but perhaps we are in the vanguard. The key may not be to "help" us or "fix" us, but to listen to us and learn from us.
Friday, August 17, 2018
Still point
Someday, when I look back, I will probably think of this last week or so as a still point. After the almost unbelievable highs and lows of the last nineteen years, and the inner turmoil of last winter, this may be the first time I have truly been able to take a deep breath and be in the moment. Last weekend's morning on the beach may have been more visually dramatic, but yesterday I experienced an hour or two of the deepest calm and inner happiness that I can remember. It wasn't "about" anything specific. I don't know how to explain it, except to say that it was a deepening feeling of being in the present, feeling the ground underfoot, walking a little dog, smelling the late summer flowers, seeing hummingbirds, and, at 62, realizing that perhaps if this isn't all that matters, an inner place like this must be the building block for all that matters. Without this solid, peaceful energy within, life careens really up and down, like a ride at the state fair. I wouldn't trade these last two decades for anything, but now I wouldn't trade a sense of calm for anything either. Whatever comes in the future, I hope it will grow out of that calm. (I experienced a little inner pushback, but not too much.)
This Midwest summer has not been the kind of cool, unsettled one I remember from the 90's. It, too, has been a still point, hot, quiet and very dry. The sun continues to be like a Necco wafer in the sky, light orange or pink from the fires further west. I'm trying to remind myself that within a matter of months, this will be the coldest place in the country, but for now, just soak it in, soak it in.
This Midwest summer has not been the kind of cool, unsettled one I remember from the 90's. It, too, has been a still point, hot, quiet and very dry. The sun continues to be like a Necco wafer in the sky, light orange or pink from the fires further west. I'm trying to remind myself that within a matter of months, this will be the coldest place in the country, but for now, just soak it in, soak it in.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
Artificial Intelligence
As regular readers know, I rarely post two days in a row, but I don't know, things are so far beyond insane out there...and I'm reaching that age where it's, like, if I don't say it now, will I get to say it tomorrow? So bear with me as the rhythm and content of this blog undergoes a little growth.
So I read Dan Brown's book Origin yesterday. I hadn't intended to. I've reached the point where I can tolerate very few forms of entertainment, especially when they involve intrigue, fear, violence, etc. Unless it's really tongue-in-cheek ("Midsomer Murders," say) or set way in the past, like some medieval mysteries, I'd rather sleep than read, watch TV or go to a movie. But when I read the book jacket's reference to a person having solved the two basic questions of human existence, I figured I had to proceed. Spoiler alert, I'm going to be very general, but I may give something away in the next paragraph.
Because, yes, what emerges is the prediction that artificial intelligence will merge with, even subsume, human intelligence within a few decades. This is nothing new. Ten years ago or more, I assigned my community college students some reading about "the singularity" as described by Ray Kurzweil and others. In Brown's book, the futurist making the prediction is an avowed atheist, setting up conflict with religious institutions. It's "religion vs. science."
Am I the only woman in the world who feels like there is something wrong with this picture? I don't feel like humanity has even begun to take women's intelligence seriously, and yet we are well on our way to becoming human search engines? What about my intelligence, creativity, intuition, wisdom? What about the changes that could take place in the world if every woman's intellectual and spiritual talents were fully used and embraced? My intelligence isn't artificial, it's very real. It is powerful. And as a total package, it has been almost completely ignored. We are skipping a step in human evolution if women's power continues to be sidelined in the race to create "artificial" intellectual power.
This isn't a critique of this book. Heck, conflict is what most of our entertainment is all about. But once you leave duality-land behind, it's literally painful to hear words like "fight," "versus," "against," "conflict," "war," etc. Energetically, you just cannot be part of it at all. There isn't much to ground a person out in post-duality land, and life out here is many things. But at least it isn't "artificial." I can testify to that.
Monday, August 13, 2018
Wailing PS
Yes, on Saturday I did my ritual at the lake.
Not surprisingly (for this east coast WASP woman who has held virtually everything inside), the hardest part was actually allowing myself to wail. I came up with every excuse in the book. There were houses and people in the vicinity who might hear me. Sound would carry because the wind was calm. I didn't want to hurt my voice. I was feeling lulled into calmness after five or ten minutes of gratitude (and in truth, I think perhaps when I do this again, I'll do the wailing first!) But in the end, I was constricted by old tapes telling me that nothing I have experienced was really all that bad, and even if it was, "people like us" don't shriek or wail under any circumstances. Never mind that the people who consider themselves "people like us" wouldn't claim me as part of their tribe in a million years. My grandparents and great aunts were regularly in the society pages in New York City back in the early 1900's, and such a heritage dies hard.
I realized something important on Saturday, however. I love Lake Superior, and more than that, I am a creature of the water's edge. I must literally live on the water, whatever that might be (even a small brook or pond). I have missed that squishy place where my bare feet simultaneously experience water and sand/rocks. I have missed the light on the water, and the wind over it. I have missed the sound of the waves. I grieved that I ever left, although I know why I had to.
For the third part of my ritual, I threw three pieces of driftwood into the water. The first was my recognition that, in this lifetime, I will never have a child. But I sent out with it the prayer that I give birth to whatever I am meant to in this time remaining to me. The second piece of driftwood was for "home" -- I threw into the arms of the Goddess how hard that concept has been, and sent with it a prayer that I soon find a home that sustains, in some long-term way, me and my sensitive spirit. Lastly, I threw out a piece of wood representing England and church music. I just said, Divine one, help me know how to use this passion from this point forward. Where does it fit in my life?
What was so fascinating is this; it was calm enough that these three pieces of wood ended up literally in relationship with each other, bobbing near one another (indeed, the "home" and "England" pieces almost seemed in dialogue, but not quite touching, which seems somehow apt). I watched as they made subtle moves in the water, from almost a straight line, to a clump, eventually to an equilateral triangle.
After the sun came up, I took a number of photographs, and I'm going to try something here that I haven't done before...share a photo with you. By this time, the only thing "wailing" was the power and beauty of the sun.
Not surprisingly (for this east coast WASP woman who has held virtually everything inside), the hardest part was actually allowing myself to wail. I came up with every excuse in the book. There were houses and people in the vicinity who might hear me. Sound would carry because the wind was calm. I didn't want to hurt my voice. I was feeling lulled into calmness after five or ten minutes of gratitude (and in truth, I think perhaps when I do this again, I'll do the wailing first!) But in the end, I was constricted by old tapes telling me that nothing I have experienced was really all that bad, and even if it was, "people like us" don't shriek or wail under any circumstances. Never mind that the people who consider themselves "people like us" wouldn't claim me as part of their tribe in a million years. My grandparents and great aunts were regularly in the society pages in New York City back in the early 1900's, and such a heritage dies hard.
I realized something important on Saturday, however. I love Lake Superior, and more than that, I am a creature of the water's edge. I must literally live on the water, whatever that might be (even a small brook or pond). I have missed that squishy place where my bare feet simultaneously experience water and sand/rocks. I have missed the light on the water, and the wind over it. I have missed the sound of the waves. I grieved that I ever left, although I know why I had to.
For the third part of my ritual, I threw three pieces of driftwood into the water. The first was my recognition that, in this lifetime, I will never have a child. But I sent out with it the prayer that I give birth to whatever I am meant to in this time remaining to me. The second piece of driftwood was for "home" -- I threw into the arms of the Goddess how hard that concept has been, and sent with it a prayer that I soon find a home that sustains, in some long-term way, me and my sensitive spirit. Lastly, I threw out a piece of wood representing England and church music. I just said, Divine one, help me know how to use this passion from this point forward. Where does it fit in my life?
What was so fascinating is this; it was calm enough that these three pieces of wood ended up literally in relationship with each other, bobbing near one another (indeed, the "home" and "England" pieces almost seemed in dialogue, but not quite touching, which seems somehow apt). I watched as they made subtle moves in the water, from almost a straight line, to a clump, eventually to an equilateral triangle.
After the sun came up, I took a number of photographs, and I'm going to try something here that I haven't done before...share a photo with you. By this time, the only thing "wailing" was the power and beauty of the sun.
Friday, August 10, 2018
Wailing
It is going to be a very hot August weekend, with little to no wind. Nevertheless, I am going to follow through with a little ritual I have been promising myself ever since I decided to return to Lake Superior. Of course, as regular readers know who came with me as I metaphorically spent much of the winter on a sandy beach, it makes sense that I go to the lakeshore to do this.
Part one of the ritual will simply be to give thanks to the "stream of love" that I referred to the other day. God, Goddess, Source, Universe, Great Spirit -- I'll use whatever words come out of my mouth as I stare at that expanse of lake. I am still alive against a whole lot of odds, and I am thankful for that more, literally, than words can express.
Then I'll look up and down the shoreline to make sure there are no people around. At the next convenient moment that will not bring people running to save me, I will let out a wail. I'm not sure whether it will last thirty seconds or thirty minutes. But this wail will express every pain I've ever pushed down, every disrespect I have swallowed, every "no" I have accepted as fact. It will also express my solidarity with every person out there who hasn't yet reached their full potential. Such frustrations are not what a creative maker has in mind for any human being. I've been stiff upper lip for far too long. It's the new moon, so I'll howl. I'll wail, for me, for you, for all of us.
The last part of this ritual (and as you can see, I am using this word in the loosest possible sense) is still a little bit of a work in process. I know from reading and from life that 60-something is a moment when a lot of us start to accept outside limitations in a way we wouldn't have, say, in our thirties. Past decisions, illnesses, commitments start to close in more. So many people are so graceful and classy at accepting these limitations, and I'm sorry to say that I'm not quite there yet. Sure, there are a few things I may metaphorically throw into the lake. No, I'll never give birth to a child in this lifetime. I'm not sure I ever quite accepted that, so now's the time to do that. And no, I'll never have a "normal" first world life. I can tell that this just simply isn't going to happen. Then there's the whole England/church music thing, which I am sure many of my friends and readers would love for me to get to the other side of. Can I throw it in the lake and let it go? No. For me, this isn't an outside limitation, or even a dream. It is who I am, and it's been the catalyst for my whole journey. I fully accept that at this moment in history, any limitations about it are really within me. I am still sure that there is some way to spend even three to six months (if not longer) in a comfortable living situation with access to multiple choices for daily evensong. Now, I have certainly modified my goals over the last few years; I don't have the energy to sing daily cathedral services even in the few places that this might be an option; I am not going to be the first woman conductor at King's College Cambridge; and I am not going to receive much acclaim for my Herbert Howells research. Those sticks I can throw into the lake. But something about all this is still very much alive, and I'm not willing to take part, as I was in the past, in killing off something that is so core to who I am. I remain, as a friend of mine puts it, "curious" about what role it will play in a life increasingly focused on the Divine Feminine. It's certainly a mystery.
Early next week I'll let you know how this all went. If you hear some wailing on the wind early on Saturday or Sunday morning, though, it just may be me. Feel free to join in.
Part one of the ritual will simply be to give thanks to the "stream of love" that I referred to the other day. God, Goddess, Source, Universe, Great Spirit -- I'll use whatever words come out of my mouth as I stare at that expanse of lake. I am still alive against a whole lot of odds, and I am thankful for that more, literally, than words can express.
Then I'll look up and down the shoreline to make sure there are no people around. At the next convenient moment that will not bring people running to save me, I will let out a wail. I'm not sure whether it will last thirty seconds or thirty minutes. But this wail will express every pain I've ever pushed down, every disrespect I have swallowed, every "no" I have accepted as fact. It will also express my solidarity with every person out there who hasn't yet reached their full potential. Such frustrations are not what a creative maker has in mind for any human being. I've been stiff upper lip for far too long. It's the new moon, so I'll howl. I'll wail, for me, for you, for all of us.
The last part of this ritual (and as you can see, I am using this word in the loosest possible sense) is still a little bit of a work in process. I know from reading and from life that 60-something is a moment when a lot of us start to accept outside limitations in a way we wouldn't have, say, in our thirties. Past decisions, illnesses, commitments start to close in more. So many people are so graceful and classy at accepting these limitations, and I'm sorry to say that I'm not quite there yet. Sure, there are a few things I may metaphorically throw into the lake. No, I'll never give birth to a child in this lifetime. I'm not sure I ever quite accepted that, so now's the time to do that. And no, I'll never have a "normal" first world life. I can tell that this just simply isn't going to happen. Then there's the whole England/church music thing, which I am sure many of my friends and readers would love for me to get to the other side of. Can I throw it in the lake and let it go? No. For me, this isn't an outside limitation, or even a dream. It is who I am, and it's been the catalyst for my whole journey. I fully accept that at this moment in history, any limitations about it are really within me. I am still sure that there is some way to spend even three to six months (if not longer) in a comfortable living situation with access to multiple choices for daily evensong. Now, I have certainly modified my goals over the last few years; I don't have the energy to sing daily cathedral services even in the few places that this might be an option; I am not going to be the first woman conductor at King's College Cambridge; and I am not going to receive much acclaim for my Herbert Howells research. Those sticks I can throw into the lake. But something about all this is still very much alive, and I'm not willing to take part, as I was in the past, in killing off something that is so core to who I am. I remain, as a friend of mine puts it, "curious" about what role it will play in a life increasingly focused on the Divine Feminine. It's certainly a mystery.
Early next week I'll let you know how this all went. If you hear some wailing on the wind early on Saturday or Sunday morning, though, it just may be me. Feel free to join in.
Monday, August 6, 2018
Magnificat
One year ago today, I sang the first of a week of choral evensongs at Canterbury Cathedral. At this hour, our group was rehearsing in the cathedral before the service. Do I wish I were having a similar experience this year? Yes. But the stream of life has moved on in unexpected ways -- for now.
It got me thinking about the Magnificat, however, the canticle which is, with the Nunc Dimittis, the centerpiece of choral evensong. The words are, of course, those of Mary as chronicled in Luke, words which she is supposed to have said when she visited her cousin Elizabeth. Both young women are pregnant. I love the opening lines, and find it possible that a deeply spiritual - what? - fourteen year old girl could say them:
My soul doth magnify the Lord:
And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.
For he hath regarded:
The lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold from henceforth:
All generations shall call me blessed...
I have always found the middle part of the canticle a bit more jarring, however, and a little less believable as coming from the same young girl. Basically, it tells of the terrible things God has done, and will do, to the powerful, the proud, and the rich. I'm not a theologian, and no doubt entire dissertations have analyzed the meaning of these words in this context. It is interesting to see Mary in a different light, however, speaking powerfully and possibly giving the world a preview of her son's subsequent messages. No serene blue-robed china statue here. And some of the musical settings take this section and run with it, with music fierce and even martial.
I spend most of my life re-framing everything into language that is less dualistic, language that works for me (no wonder I am so exhausted!) and back in November, I re-wrote the Magnificat. I hand-wrote it in my journal, and I am going to share it with you as the spirit moved me to write it, essentially a draft. I just want to be clear that I did absolutely no research beforehand, and any similarities with any other re-writings or translations are totally coincidental. However, the traditional words are rooted in my heart; I credit them completely and hope that I was inspired by their spirit.
My soul honors the all-encompassing stream of Love
And my spirit has rejoiced that I am fully a part of that stream.
For it embraces me, even when I appear to be its imperfect and incomplete expression.
For behold from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
The exuberance of Divine Love magnifies me, and Holy is its name.
This stream of Love will carry us if we but let it, through all eternity.
This stream is powerful and brings about a reconfiguration of those whose hearts are soft enough to transform. The proud may be scattered, the mighty brought down or presented new challenges, the weak, strengthened. The hungry may be filled with good things, and the rich inspired to give everything away.
The stream of Love compassionately remembers every being that has ever flowed in it, past, present and future.
Glory be to every facet and expression of Divine Love, Mother, Father, Child, soul and holy spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
If I had my 'druthers, I would still live in England and attend choral evensong at least three afternoons a week, at cathedrals, abbeys and college chapels all over the country. I would spend the rest of my life hearing (and occasionally singing) hundreds of settings of the Magnificat, from the Stanford in G, to the Murrill in E, and, of course, the many Howells settings, especially the incomparable Collegium Regale. Would I ever want to walk into a cathedral and hear my wording? No. But it helps to have articulated what is in my heart.
It got me thinking about the Magnificat, however, the canticle which is, with the Nunc Dimittis, the centerpiece of choral evensong. The words are, of course, those of Mary as chronicled in Luke, words which she is supposed to have said when she visited her cousin Elizabeth. Both young women are pregnant. I love the opening lines, and find it possible that a deeply spiritual - what? - fourteen year old girl could say them:
My soul doth magnify the Lord:
And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior.
For he hath regarded:
The lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold from henceforth:
All generations shall call me blessed...
I have always found the middle part of the canticle a bit more jarring, however, and a little less believable as coming from the same young girl. Basically, it tells of the terrible things God has done, and will do, to the powerful, the proud, and the rich. I'm not a theologian, and no doubt entire dissertations have analyzed the meaning of these words in this context. It is interesting to see Mary in a different light, however, speaking powerfully and possibly giving the world a preview of her son's subsequent messages. No serene blue-robed china statue here. And some of the musical settings take this section and run with it, with music fierce and even martial.
I spend most of my life re-framing everything into language that is less dualistic, language that works for me (no wonder I am so exhausted!) and back in November, I re-wrote the Magnificat. I hand-wrote it in my journal, and I am going to share it with you as the spirit moved me to write it, essentially a draft. I just want to be clear that I did absolutely no research beforehand, and any similarities with any other re-writings or translations are totally coincidental. However, the traditional words are rooted in my heart; I credit them completely and hope that I was inspired by their spirit.
My soul honors the all-encompassing stream of Love
And my spirit has rejoiced that I am fully a part of that stream.
For it embraces me, even when I appear to be its imperfect and incomplete expression.
For behold from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.
The exuberance of Divine Love magnifies me, and Holy is its name.
This stream of Love will carry us if we but let it, through all eternity.
This stream is powerful and brings about a reconfiguration of those whose hearts are soft enough to transform. The proud may be scattered, the mighty brought down or presented new challenges, the weak, strengthened. The hungry may be filled with good things, and the rich inspired to give everything away.
The stream of Love compassionately remembers every being that has ever flowed in it, past, present and future.
Glory be to every facet and expression of Divine Love, Mother, Father, Child, soul and holy spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
If I had my 'druthers, I would still live in England and attend choral evensong at least three afternoons a week, at cathedrals, abbeys and college chapels all over the country. I would spend the rest of my life hearing (and occasionally singing) hundreds of settings of the Magnificat, from the Stanford in G, to the Murrill in E, and, of course, the many Howells settings, especially the incomparable Collegium Regale. Would I ever want to walk into a cathedral and hear my wording? No. But it helps to have articulated what is in my heart.
Friday, August 3, 2018
The Takeaway
It is fascinating to be in a situation where I am in the process of seeing, or arranging to see, a number of friends who I haven't seen in twenty years. I feel quite inadequate to the task of condensing these crucial yet circuitous years into a short introductory statement, and yet last night, I was playing around with finding a snappy response to the question, "What have you been doing?" What haven't I been doing? How can I sum up this complex stretch of a lifetime? What is the takeaway?
I've "done" so many things that in a sense, "doing" cannot possibly have been the actual point of it all. And being a mystic, doing never seems to be the point of it all. So perhaps the better question for me to answer is, who am I, and what is the biggest lesson I have learned? Still not easy to answer, having learned so much about myself, my family, my relationship to church music, art and writing, and our culture.
Back in my October 2016 blog "Liz's New Allegory," I turned Plato's Allegory of the Cave upside down, and in my own way, I have turned almost every institution I have touched upside down, and/or have been left at arm's length by them, understandably. Nothing makes sense to me, from our use of money to our fear-based institutions to our attitudes toward health to our traditional religious constructs. Every time someone says, "but that is the reality," my response is, "Whose reality?" My fellow 60-something friends and I were brought up in a world where there were virtually no women in the professional workplace or corridors of power. Women quite literally did not create these "realities." Yet by the time we graduated from college in the mid-seventies, that is exactly the world in which we were told we must excel. It's not like the institutions which welcomed women necessarily wanted to reflect more feminine, loving attributes. We were expected to change, to acclimate ourselves "kill-or-be-killed" or fall through the cracks. And there are many ways of falling through the cracks. Mine has been just one.
But I'm still here. That is the takeaway. I have crawled out of the cracks again and again. And now when I greet these old friends, I'm not as sweet and self-deprecatory as I might have been in the past. I am far more upfront and blunt. "I've tried to follow the path of love. I think most of the time, I have modeled the Divine Feminine. I've tried to sing the music I love, and to express my truth above everything. Most of the time, I've had no direct male or institutional support, so it's been bloody hard and it has almost done me in. But I'm still here. I think the energy of the Goddess is coming out of hibernation, so this is my time. This is our time." I hope this will be the opening for wonderful story-telling, mutual support and understanding. I cannot wait to hear their "takeaways," and to find out what our journeys have had in common. And more than that, to use our takeaways as bricks for the path ahead. I know in my heart that the human life path does not have to be so full of conflict, lack of fulfillment, and pain. Women of my generation have a special role to play in envisioning and modeling the world we actually want to see in front of us, using whatever energy we have left. And I suspect we may find that our energy levels rebound when we stop trying so hard to reference the old models.
I've "done" so many things that in a sense, "doing" cannot possibly have been the actual point of it all. And being a mystic, doing never seems to be the point of it all. So perhaps the better question for me to answer is, who am I, and what is the biggest lesson I have learned? Still not easy to answer, having learned so much about myself, my family, my relationship to church music, art and writing, and our culture.
Back in my October 2016 blog "Liz's New Allegory," I turned Plato's Allegory of the Cave upside down, and in my own way, I have turned almost every institution I have touched upside down, and/or have been left at arm's length by them, understandably. Nothing makes sense to me, from our use of money to our fear-based institutions to our attitudes toward health to our traditional religious constructs. Every time someone says, "but that is the reality," my response is, "Whose reality?" My fellow 60-something friends and I were brought up in a world where there were virtually no women in the professional workplace or corridors of power. Women quite literally did not create these "realities." Yet by the time we graduated from college in the mid-seventies, that is exactly the world in which we were told we must excel. It's not like the institutions which welcomed women necessarily wanted to reflect more feminine, loving attributes. We were expected to change, to acclimate ourselves "kill-or-be-killed" or fall through the cracks. And there are many ways of falling through the cracks. Mine has been just one.
But I'm still here. That is the takeaway. I have crawled out of the cracks again and again. And now when I greet these old friends, I'm not as sweet and self-deprecatory as I might have been in the past. I am far more upfront and blunt. "I've tried to follow the path of love. I think most of the time, I have modeled the Divine Feminine. I've tried to sing the music I love, and to express my truth above everything. Most of the time, I've had no direct male or institutional support, so it's been bloody hard and it has almost done me in. But I'm still here. I think the energy of the Goddess is coming out of hibernation, so this is my time. This is our time." I hope this will be the opening for wonderful story-telling, mutual support and understanding. I cannot wait to hear their "takeaways," and to find out what our journeys have had in common. And more than that, to use our takeaways as bricks for the path ahead. I know in my heart that the human life path does not have to be so full of conflict, lack of fulfillment, and pain. Women of my generation have a special role to play in envisioning and modeling the world we actually want to see in front of us, using whatever energy we have left. And I suspect we may find that our energy levels rebound when we stop trying so hard to reference the old models.
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Eyes PS
This morning, it occurred to me to say something important. I hope my readers realize that my primary purpose in writing this blog is to chronicle the events of my journey, and the life lessons I have learned from it. It is not in any way to recommend living as I have -- indeed, I wouldn't wish decades of "hanging on for dear life" on anyone in the world. And I wouldn't recommend putting off any medical/dental/visual treatments that are right or necessary for you. Most of my automobile driving was done back between 1990 and 2010, when I owned a car much of the time and stayed current on eye exams. However, I haven't had a car since then and have kept a license only so that driving would be an option. I haven't driven at all for months, and am beginning to wonder whether I will ever want to again, but not because of my vision, more because of the use of natural resources. That is, as they say, a whole "nother" story.
The point is that I hope someday we will all look back with horror on this era, when people were forced to make choices between their health (or that of their families) and any other crucial factor, be it food, housing, education, or simply following one's genuine inclinations and passions. I hope we will shudder at the fact that health care was tied in any way to the profit motive. I hope we will be shocked that we lived for so long in a society that expected people to take jobs largely for the health insurance. (Indeed, dental and vision coverage are often not even included.) Surely this whole model must be on its way out.
Until then, we are all doing our best. But if possible, follow my eye doctor's instructions and get these wonderful miracles checked once a year. The moral of my story yesterday was that you may get good news!
The point is that I hope someday we will all look back with horror on this era, when people were forced to make choices between their health (or that of their families) and any other crucial factor, be it food, housing, education, or simply following one's genuine inclinations and passions. I hope we will shudder at the fact that health care was tied in any way to the profit motive. I hope we will be shocked that we lived for so long in a society that expected people to take jobs largely for the health insurance. (Indeed, dental and vision coverage are often not even included.) Surely this whole model must be on its way out.
Until then, we are all doing our best. But if possible, follow my eye doctor's instructions and get these wonderful miracles checked once a year. The moral of my story yesterday was that you may get good news!
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