Rummage Sale

Yesterday was hard. I think it was a little like having been bitten by a spider or wasp. It takes a few days for the venom to spread through your system. Friday, despite Thursday's beautiful singing experience, it just felt like every cell and bone and atom of my body had finally succumbed. I collapsed.

So today, I knew I had to try to get up and out, and a church rummage sale organized by an older friend seemed like a good catalyst. I believe in this kind of recycling on principle, but I always forget (how is this possible?) that as someone who owns virtually nothing, table upon table of "stuff" is very hard for me to process. The sale was run mostly by 70-plus-year-old ladies, bless them, but I looked on the whole thing like a visitor from another planet. I am nearly their age, but it's difficult to imagine me in their place. There's a paradigm shifting here, and I don't know how the events of this week fit into it, but it's hard to see me becoming a good "little old lady." Heavens, I haven't done anything else the way I was supposed to! Yet I hope the event was successful for them, patronized by better shoppers than I.

There is a reason for everything, and in the book section of the sale I did find a compendium of the works of Florence Scovel Shinn, my first teacher of metaphysics/law of attraction. My own Shinn books are in storage, but I can tell I need to revisit her wisdom now so I made this one purchase. At a little after eleven, I went outside and walked the church's labyrinth, and held some good family friends in the light as they mourn the loss of their father, an avid sailor. I do hope that some of those valuable navigation skills have rubbed off on all of us.

Tudor church music in trying times

Yesterday, I had the privilege of spending one glorious hour singing Tudor church music with four other excellent singers/sight readers. The a cappella music of Tallis, Tye, Byrd, Gibbons, Merbecke, Parsons, Taverner and others is not for the faint of heart or reading ability. I am rusty and had to keep a beat going against the side of my leg so as not to get too far off, but I was proud that I still have a strong, clear, bell-like alto that pretty much stays on key. The other singers were sensitive and musical; this genre of music requires an extremely high level of skill and awareness of the other voices. We had never sung together before, and I think all of us left thinking, wow, that wasn't bad at all.

As I was thinking about it last night, thinking about how this music (and modern English church music) is the music of my soul, I realized something. I wonder if there is, deep in me, almost a "Pandora" radio station on at all times, kind of a streaming thread of the Tudor greats through Purcell and on into the glorious 19th century giants of Parry and Stanford and Elgar, then Howells, Walton, Ireland, Britten, Leighton, Tavener and beyond, and then looping back to the beginning. There is a quality of beauty and clarity in this music that is my touchstone, my backbone, and for whatever reason, other musical genres barely move me. Singing it, as I did last night, I felt like myself for the first time in months, plugged in to the electric current of the Universe. I suddenly saw it as the "horizon" image that I worked with in painting for several years, an energetic ribbon moving through my own inner landscape. Things in my life that haven't reflected that musicality and resonance -- from jobs to people to places -- haven't lasted long because they were not an energetic match. Arguably I haven't been quote-unquote "successful" in the wider world because of this impossibly exquisite musical standard always flowing through my core. That's not a good thing (!!) but I think it explains a lot.

Renaissance/Tudor choral singing requires cooperation. Love. Sensitivity. An appreciation of beauty. Hard work. Intuition. Inner-centeredness/outer awareness. What it is not is competitive, hateful, self-righteous, cynical, outward-lashing or individualistic. At this exceedingly challenging moment in the world, this music has much to teach us. As I headed to the rehearsal yesterday, I had to convince myself that singing for an hour was even remotely relevant. Now, on some level, I understand that perhaps nothing else is.

Another Tuesday

Several of my friends, bless them, look to me and this blog to help them frame events both personal and societal. I fell down on the job yesterday. I had stayed up late, until about 2 AM Wednesday morning, and then for really the first time in my life was too depressed later in the morning to get up and face the world. The election result wasn't unexpected -- I'm afraid I sensed it coming for almost a year -- but the heartbreaking reality of what it could mean for all of us was too much to bear.

Back in 2001, I learned about an opportunity to teach a course at the Community College of Vermont called "Seminar in Educational Inquiry," a wonderful capstone course for students nearing graduation. I spoke to the administration on Monday, September 10, and got a call that I was hired later that day. I was then scheduled to come in to the office and pick up a load of books, syllabi, etc. at 11 the next day. Well, we all remember what happened early in the morning of September 11. I walked to downtown Middlebury, literally not knowing whether our whole country was under attack and what would happen next, and when I spoke with my coordinator about the Wednesday night class, we agreed that assuming the class took place, I should just go with the flow. Let students talk.

In a case of perfect synchronicity, the course "question" for that week was, "How do I know who I am?" And as the dozen or so of us met around the table, shaken and afraid, we introduced ourselves to each other, and we tried to articulate who we felt we had been on Monday, and the change that had taken place over 24 hours.

Isn't it strange? Another Tuesday shocker, fifteen years later, only this time it is not really a bolt out of the blue. It was the democratic process at work; we chose our own destiny. Once again, who I was on Monday of this week and who I am now, while not two "different" people, feels utterly reconfigured.

I was able to make only one decision yesterday. I've tended to write this blog about every three to four days. I've wanted to write more, but those childhood admonishments ("don't think so much") have held me back. No more. I think it will be important to check in almost every day, even if some readers choose only to read occasionally. Part of the reconfiguration involves the metaphor of me on the boat, going down a new stretch of river. No longer do I feel like the captain of the boat, or the boat itself. I feel like I am the river, that at the very least I am called right now, drop after daily drop, to flow through this altered landscape with water as clear and pure as I can make it. I will just keep flowing and witnessing, at least for now. See you tomorrow.

Choices, Con't

Looking back, I see that I have written several blog posts about choices. Choices are a particularly big part of American life, especially so in the last few decades, as we have created an astonishing array of products and options in every area of life. When I was a child, my breakfast bowl of cereal was placed in front of me. About thirty years later, I watched my young nieces being offered the choice: "Do you want a bagel? Or do you want an egg?" I always felt on the fence about this. Not being a parent myself, I could never really decide whether these kinds of choices were empowering or just confusing to children. To this day, faced with a complex array of toothpastes or pastas at the store, I'm a bit overwhelmed myself.

But there is one thing I do know. That moment when you "own" your own choices is like the graduation day of the spiritual journey. The moment when you can look back over a lifetime and see your own string of deliberate choices (I chose to go to that college or university rather than this one, I chose to marry or not marry, I chose that company and to stay with it or leave it, I chose to move here, or to live there) is the moment when a surge of power seems to go through the system. And even more challenging -- but potentially more rewarding and empowering -- is coming to peace with having chosen on some higher level the hardest aspects of our lives, even the ones that might seem to be random or "someone else's fault": the place or circumstances of birth, our pursuit of a passion that tradition has excluded us from, an illness or disability or that of a loved one, being hurt by another, or to live during times of political instability or financial collapse. From the simplest cold to huge life catastrophes, it's so much easier to place the responsibility on someone else's door, the guy who sneezed on us in line or "those people" who stole our jobs or whose hourly income is more than our yearly income. It is much harder to step back and take a view from the heavens, and say, wow, I chose this for the good that will ultimately come from it. I chose this so I could make a difference. I chose this so humanity could move forward. I chose this because I was strong enough to experience it and then turn around and teach others. I chose this to remind myself that ultimate happiness comes from within.

Wednesday morning, some segment of our population may be in full fault-finding mode. Yet no matter how the election turns out, it will be the beginning, not the end, of a complex series of societal choices and new developments. I hope maybe we can all "own" the fact that as a culture, we are choosing to learn some new life lessons. I hope most of us will stay empowered enough to remember that our personal happiness and freedom are not imposed on us from outside. I hope most of us will remember to love all our fellow citizens as best we can. In the end, though, I cannot even make this choice for others or impose my perspective on others; my main job tomorrow and every day is to choose as wisely as I can and own every decision, even bagels vs. eggs. I have the power to do that. And that makes me happy.

The City Bus

I spent quite a bit of time on the city bus this morning, and one of my thoughts as we head into this unprecedented election was: what if every major candidate were required (yes, required) to spend several weekdays during the election cycle traveling incognito on a city bus -- in any major (or even medium-sized) American city? Their lives are lived in such a privileged bubble. The city bus may be a bubble, but of an entirely different sort, one that we all should experience. I guess I don't have to tell you that there are people from every possible walk of life traveling by city bus; every color, nationality, religion, gender, age, and place on the economic, mental health, disability and addiction spectrum. It's ridiculous after all these years living on the edge that I still have an instinctive default to snobbery ("I am not one of these people") but these days, it lasts about two minutes, until I realize, yes, I am one of these people. I am probably far more "one of these people" than I am a person of the cookie-cutter suburbs or wealthy gated communities or doorman apartments. I have friends across the entire landscape, but even a sudden change upwards in my life situation would probably not make me, at 60, fit any rigid stereotype, and overall I am glad for it. I've been fortunate in that I can imagine, and function in, a huge range of social milieus. Can our candidates? Do they have any clue about the daily lives of the bus-bound?

Riding the bus promotes compassion, empathy, and patience. There's that lady who always comments on your nice earrings. There are people complaining about their work in the box stores or about their efforts to balance three jobs. There are university students talking about philosophy finals and guys comparing notes about their experiences in prison. There are people talking to themselves. And yes, the bus may be late. It may spend five minutes at a stop, facilitating the ride of a wheelchair-bound patron. You can't just drive impatiently by in your big SUV. You are sitting on a seat, someone else is driving the bus, and your "fate" is joined with the other ten or twenty or more people around you. The first thought on seeing the wheelchair is, darn it, what will this do to the bus schedule, but then you look at the person in the wheelchair and realize with humility and gratitude that your two feet still get you around. All in all, you are really the luckiest person in the world. And you send a little prayer to them, imagining the hard, almost nonstop impatience they must feel on a daily basis.

If it were not for the fact that I truly believe our world is becoming more and more love-, liberty- and beauty-filled, I would be quite downcast right now. This election is opening up an almost toxic cauldron of buried rage, and however the immediate election turns out, I suspect we are in for a "hold onto your hats" kind of decade or two. It's difficult, even after many years of deliberate, positive spiritual work, not to anxiously sense the complexity of what is coming down the pike.

As events unfold, may I remember that in the end, we are all on one bus. We are part of one whole. We are "them," and they are "us." May I retain a sense of patience and humor about this ride on Route Earth. May I frequently remind myself to look out the window to get a broader perspective, and, all in all, may I enjoy the ride. We are here to do that! Yes, we are.

Baseball

Well, so I am not a big baseball fan. I am one of those people who doesn't watch it all summer, and only occasionally watches when World Series comes around. This year, because I really had no preference between Chicago and Cleveland, I didn't even watch the first six games. But last night, I had to watch. I knew it was going to be a historic win either way, and it turned out that the level of play was just amazing. I couldn't turn it off. After a rain delay, the game went into a hold-your-breath tenth inning, and was won by Chicago at nearly 1 AM, their first championship in 108 years. I mean, that is so cool, isn't it?

It was neat to watch people who love what they do, care so, so much, and play a sport where the "beating" is only metaphorical. I'm not sure I'll become an ardent fan, but "never say never."

Saints

Today is All Saints' Day on the church calendar, and it's a commemoration I continue to love, although in a somewhat expanded way. So many of the people I know and love do beautiful things for other people, or create miracles large and small, or have lived lives of courage or beauty or integrity, that it seems a shame to limit the designation to those who have been canonized.

The other week, I encountered an older lady who I've known kind of "around the edges" for many decades. The last time I saw her she was terribly ill, so it was a surprise to see her looking extremely healthy, almost beaming. Indeed, when we sat down to chat, I swear I saw a halo around her. She said she had never been happier, and I asked why this was. It turns out she spends every day doing things or making things for other people. She is a volunteer par excellence, and clearly one who is led from the heart to do what she does. Joy was emanating from her. I knew in that instant that she is (in my book) an angel and a saint.

However, the story doesn't end there. I left the encounter feeling rather "guilty" and inadequate, because at least up to this point, I have never found the same satisfaction in that kind of selflessness. Indeed, I would beam with far more joy helping people to rid themselves of their possessions than I would giving them more. There is an expectation of us as women that we should be eternally giving, and I know many women who are simply drained to the max right now who might not survive a "retirement" of nonstop giving and helping.

I've given a lot of thought to this, and I've tried to articulate it in previous blog posts too. There are many ways of joyfully helping the world; adding positively to the energy of life on this planet can take many forms. It can take the form of climbing a mountain that few people have ever scaled. It can take the form of advocating for the homeless or the environment. It can take the form of creating a unique piece of art. It can take the form of working with children, or creating new business opportunities, or loving your pets or taking a meditation retreat. It can take the form of winning a marathon or working at a soup kitchen. The sign that it is genuinely the optimum activity for you is if you beam with joy when you do it, and at the prospect of doing it. When we reach a high level of divine alignment, we will feel called to a particular activity that is right for us.

I remembered, fortunately, that there have been a number of moments in my life when I beamed just as brightly as my friend, and when an onlooker might have seen a bright aura -- the times when I have sung choral evensong, or participated as a congregant in the choir stalls of an English cathedral. I have also felt that way several times when I have finished writing this blog and prepared to click "publish." The "giving" I was doing was somewhat more subtle, more in the realm (at least I hope) of inspiration or beauty..

So today is our day, all of us who are doing our best to align with the highest light within us, to do no harm to anyone, and to help people and the planet with our joy and our gifts. Even if our halos aren't visible every day, even if they only come out once in a while, here's to the saint within all of us.