Beyond Wondering and Wandering

It has started, the dark time of year that I don't think in the past I acknowledged finding hard, but I do now. And this week's earlier and earlier darkness seemed to coincide with several "dark nights of the soul."

I have had a rental right near Lake Superior all summer that was in ways simply idyllic, and perfect for working on my book. I can hear the waves on the big lake, and see sunsets and rowers and ore ships on the bay. I am surrounded by the water I love so much, hear lapping even when the window is closed. Unfortunately, this situation is not likely to last beyond November 1, so this wandering mystic will have to wander on, again, as the weather here is beginning to get brutal. I've been writing like crazy, hoping to finish at least the hand-written part of the book this month, although I find I have to pace myself. It's emotional, challenging writing.

And then all of a sudden last week, I was limping heavily on a very painful left leg, without even having fallen. A trip to Urgent Care told me that it was something called I T band syndrome, and rest, some pain relief and physical therapy will help. But once again, I lurched from feeling young-ish to ancient; reminded of what a total miracle walking is. Astonished that I've usually done it beautifully, ever more conscious of the fragility of that miracle.

I don't know, I just had a few days when I wanted my mom, even though she was never the nurturing type. If not my mom, then the Great Mother, a warm hugging presence in the sky who would go, "There, there, Liz. It's all going to be OK. Here's a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie." Only She wasn't there either. I suddenly realized that She is in me, also exiled, wandering, trying to find safe shelter, trying to be heard in a world that appears to have lost its collective mind.

What has at least partially brought me out of this dark night was validating that I have known since I was about six who I am and where my home is. I am a mystic, and my home is in the choir stalls of English cathedrals. Period. When I root myself in this, I stop freaking out. I'm beyond wondering at the illogic of this, and needing to understand. It simply is, whether I am singing or not. I am also done trying to figure out how to get home. It will happen because it is now time to stop wandering. I am beyond wondering and beyond wandering. My legs and my soul are ready to be rooted. They are ready to sink into more permanent soil, finally a more unified person.

"AI" Again

Well, I wasn't going to weigh in again so soon, but I feel like I am almost jumping out of my skin these days.

So yesterday, I TV-channel-surfed through a headline about how Artificial Intelligence was going to "fight" global warming. By the time the reference registered, I surfed back through the channels and couldn't find it again, but a computer search just now indicates that it has been the topic of quite a bit of media reporting.

This is the intersection of two of my biggest frustrations. Frustration number one: the concept that any kind of fight is the solution to any serious problem on this planet. There may arguably be winners in sporting events, but I just don't believe there are when wars are fought in society at large. "Fighting" global climate chaos will just create more chaos, in my opinion, and I've said enough about this in the past so that I won't repeat myself and bore you silly!

And then, back on August 14, 2018, I explored how we humans are rushing headlong into "artificial intelligence" while the intelligence of women is still undervalued and, at times, totally ignored. It's just horrifying to think we are skipping such an important step. An AI "fight against global warming" is doubly unlikely to succeed, especially if women are under-represented. I hope all involved will gently try to steer the conversation away from "conflict" mentality and terminology, at the very least.

This is a little tangential, but I've become almost beside myself about plastic. Yes, I may use it less than the average person, having such a tiny footprint on the earth now; no home, no car, few belongings. But still, no matter how I try, most of my purchases have some kind of plastic packaging. I go into a big box store, and almost swoon from the (admittedly exaggerated) impression that the amount of plastic in that one store is enough to clog an ocean; when I think about the other millions of stores worldwide, I can barely breathe. Recycling isn't enough.

I imagine myself back in, what, the late 1940's or 1950's, being the sole woman (maybe a secretary) in a boardroom full of male executives. They are all excited by the prospects of what can be done with plastic, and the profits that will come from ever-expanding use of the material. I can see myself, timidly raising my hand, asking, "Ahem, I am not a scientist, but I wonder if you are considering whether plastic breaks down in nature, so that there won't be too much pollution." And I can almost hear it now (because I have been at the receiving end of phrases like it in real life); "Young lady, don't worry your pretty head about that. If it causes pollution, we'll worry about it later."

Well, we've reached "later."

My hunch is that if women had been allowed equal power as public co-creators of our world for the last few thousand years, we wouldn't be anywhere near as technologically evolved as we are, but we would also not be at the edge of such a steep environmental cliff.  Women might have helped steer a more sensible, gentle, respectful path in our interaction with Earth. Nature can't help but try desperately right now to return her planet to balance. Whether we like it or not, we may be tossed back in time to the moment where women stopped being listened to, and get a second chance to work together, men and women, as co-creators. Now that would be real intelligence, the human brain working at full capacity, no artificiality required.

"And"-a-two

The biggest "aha" from what I wrote the other day is this: I have been more responsible than anyone for maintaining a split down my middle. When I've been in England, I have done everything possible to "fit in" and not seem American. Oh sure, the minute I open my mouth, it's evident that I am a North American, but in every other respect, I have tried to disappear. I've tried to be relatively quiet, unobtrusive, colorless. In my encounters with the church music or academic worlds over there, I have tried mightily not to be too enthusiastic or self-revealing, because those things inevitably seemed to be conversation-enders. I've allowed myself to be corrected ("That's not how we say it") and subtly molded into a less outgoing, less visible presence. And I've liked that. I've liked walking down the street like any other middle-aged British woman, carrying my bags of groceries. I've liked people coming up to me on the street asking directions because they assume I'm local. It has always been somewhat of a relief to be in a more constrained, "civilized" milieu. My more independent/powerful/lively/vocal self didn't just take a back seat, she would almost dissolve entirely into the ether. The whole New Age/new spirituality thing is relatively nonexistent over there. A few years ago, I went into Cambridge's main bookstore, Heffers, and asked for their New Age Spirituality section. The clerk looked blankly at me, and walked me over to a shelf where there were, like, three books total. In an American bookstore, there might be three or four entire bookshelves.

Then, in America, how to be the more scholarly/restrained/mystic/England- and English church music-loving me? She has been literally and figuratively a ghost on the landscape. I might have fit in a bit if I had pursued a PhD and entered university teaching. But I just didn't understand back then that I might be good at that or that it was an option. And today there are a few churches in the US where I might be able to sing the music I love at a reasonably high level, but right now, I'm too exhausted to search them out and move to yet another new part of the country. Overall, over here, I've focused on a more outgoing, more "artsy," more New Age-y, more feminist "me," a "me" more rooted in the future, not the past. Virtually none of my women friends speak the language of choral evensong, so, not being able to figure out how to mesh these two contrasting worlds, I've left it out of the conversation entirely.

There is no doubt in my mind that the only place I'll ever fully feel at home, and in the milieu where I'm likely to thrive, is England. I need the possibility of daily choral evensong in my life, period. However, if I didn't understand it before, I understand it now. From this point forward, I can only go back for any length of time once I am willing to bring my most powerful, outgoing self with me. I have to proudly embrace my American energy on that soil, and bring my whole crazy story with me. And I'll only find happiness and wholeness in the meantime once I find a way to express my English side more effectively, even if it is through artwork or some other unexpected medium. I can no longer keep that form of beauty at arm's length in my American life because of the fear that if I get too rooted, I'll never get home. Because I think that's the crux of it all, right there. Fear.

I am the one who needs to dismantle this painful wall, one stone at a time. No one else can do it for me.

"And"

Saturday was a glorious day in Duluth. Sunny, maybe 72 degrees. I sat on a rock near the lake at Canal Park, looking out at nearly-flat water. A slight northwest wind propelled a single large sailboat. On the rocky beach, a couple searched for sea glass and precious stones, and children threw rocks back into the lake. The midday sun hung relatively low and pale in the sky, a sign that winter isn't far off.

I was grateful for this beauty, and I tried so hard to stay in the present, as wise ones tell us to do, just as I have from so many other U.S. ports-of-call over the years. And yet, like the prickling of an amputated limb, my consciousness felt London, felt and saw and heard the music lists (from English cathedrals, chapels and abbeys) that I've seen recently on social media. I saw the classic art in great galleries and the soaring cathedral structures and felt my feet rooted in another soil. I wasn't fully on that lake shore any more than I am fully anywhere over here, ever. It must be as painful for you, my readers, to read about as it is to be me sometimes, and I am sorry about that. I am plugging away at my book even though it may end up being a hard read. I don't know how to get permanently where I want to be, or to be fully at peace where I am, and, like the little kids, I just had to throw this lifelong conundrum into the motherly embrace of the lake. It remains far too big for me to solve.

Not surprisingly, the next 24 hours unrolled, if not a solution, then at least a new understanding.

As my regular readers know, I've spoken several times recently about rising above duality. I can see that our culture's addiction to division and conflict is killing us. All of us were trained to look at life this way, to "fight" crime, disease, global warming, homelessness, war, discrimination, hatred, evil. And yet none of these conditions is solved by that rigid wall down the center of life and our nonstop struggle. If anything, they are all simply getting worse.

I've seen this so clearly outside me, so why have I not seen the same situation within? I am a being of such contrasts: left brain (lawyerly, organized, managerial, verbal, "male") and right brain (artistic, spontaneous, spiritual, creative, "female"); American (by birth) and English (in spirit); upper crust and poor; passionate about a form of Christian music and Goddess-centered; civilized and yet wild; powerful yet powerless.

Each side of me has been at war with the other. I have wanted one side to win out and extinguish the other, just to make life easier to explain, to make a simpler narrative. I have been terrified of the possibility that I am big enough and all-encompassing enough to be all of these things. If I could consistently say as I began to do above, "I am __ and __," how would my life change?

Nothing in me is wrong or evil. There is no reason to kill any of these qualities -- except to keep me hobbled and small. Perhaps the only "evil"/source of pain in any scenario is the trained impulse to build a wall down the middle, to hunker down, and to start fighting.

This realization helped. A lot. It helped me embrace my reality here just a little, and fully appreciate that beautiful moment on the beach. I'll write more on all of this very soon.

Audition and Visualization

Last week, I plucked up my courage and put together a submission of my book to a literary agent. Within a little over an hour, I had received a rejection note. Now, this was my first effort of this kind, and I didn't necessarily expect first-time success or even moderate interest. But what felt like a kick in the stomach was the immediacy of the turnaround. I'm a "girl" of the pre-internet era, clearly, a "My Brilliant Career" writer of sending things off hard copy and waiting weeks to hear back.

Fortunately, I quickly realized that this had triggered a really powerfully painful response, and why. There has been a recurring theme in my life, arguably since birth, of me showing up raring to go and being rejected without, so to speak, "an audition." Of course, the older I get and the more I write and act from the heart, the more painful rejection becomes. I spent the weekend in a state of shock; but I've survived it; I wrote some more of my book this morning and am writing here as well. As I say, the fact of rejection is less painful than the knee-jerk timing of it. The kindest thing would have been for the agent to wait several days to give a potential author at least the sense that their work has been fully considered, but, ahem, our system is far from kind, the issue I have had with it my whole life.

I didn't watch the U.S. Open this weekend, but of course I was intrigued by the surprising win of the young Canadian player. I heard an interview with her this morning, and she indicated that she had been practicing creative visualization since she was a kid (yes, about a decade!) -- and that she had frequently pictured winning this tournament. Wow, what a sea change for girls born in the c.2000 era compared with those of us from the '50's. It's amazing that such empowerment was encouraged so early in her, when many of us of my generation experienced the exact opposite. I've been practicing visualization for decades too, but earlier negative messages too often seem to negate the progress I make.

Nevertheless, I persist. The courage of these younger women helps to keep me going.

Choir

A news report about the unsuccessful effort by a 9-year-old girl to join an elite German boys' choir has, once again, brought up this core part of my own journey, which I am writing about in my book.

On the one hand, I feel such solidarity with her. It is vindication, validating my own desire, starting 59 years ago, to sing the music of the English men-and-boys' choir tradition. I shouldn't still need to validate it, but strangely, I do.

And yet the fact that she was blocked in court causes a new wave of heartbreak. In the 1960's no one would even have considered suing. I am not big on lawsuits, but in this case I'm glad she and/or her parents had the courage to take that modern route. It brought into the public eye all the traditional arguments against girls in these choirs -- the slightly different sound made by girls and boys at young ages, and the limited time that the boys can sing soprano. Then there is the appeal to tradition; 500 to 1,000 years is a long time, and a huge barrier to even the slightest change. The court ruled for the choirmasters' artistic discretion and against the young singer..

Many English cathedrals have instituted girls' choirs which alternate services with the boys. But the most prominent English and American choirs are still men and boys. And while adult women have increasing numbers of opportunities in secondary and visiting choirs, full acceptance of us within the tradition seems to be almost as far off as ever. This makes it very hard for young women to pursue the related option of entering the field as organist-choirmasters or organ scholars...as I learned too well, if you don't have a solid network of older role models and a variety of welcoming opportunities, it is impossible to move upwards.

At my age, I guess I am more aware of what all this "feels" like than the actual intellectual, musical or legal arguments. It is, above all, about feeling welcome -- or not. I saw the words, "Never will a girl sing in a boys' choir" and I felt the punch to my stomach just as I have so many times before. When you are called to sing a specific tradition of sacred music at a high level, and you are not "allowed" to, your soul may never fully recover. Mine didn't. I pray that this young girl discovers some new, satisfying alternatives, or that her suit eventually opens some doors for her and others of her generation. I'd like her to know that I, too, tried my best! (As I write this, I am crying.)

Shifts

OK, so I remember when I first lived in Duluth in the 90's, I began to sense that we were nearing major shifts in both human consciousness and our cultural center-of-gravity. It just seemed to me that we were on an unsustainable path and that things were going to change quite substantially -- at some point. And then it seemed like the kinds of shifts I was envisioning weren't happening. I wondered for several decades if it hadn't just been a figment of my imagination...

These last few weeks, I'm becoming pretty convinced that it wasn't my imagination. What is happening is too big, too dramatic, too close to home.

I'm tired from working on my book -- it's an emotional thing to do. And the news simply becomes more terrifying and more grotesque by the minute. So how to continue on a forward path right now without losing heart? All I seem to be able to do is keep checking in with myself about who I am, what my values are, and what forms of beauty constitute my personal backbone. All I can seem to do is be that person in the world. Coming from the background I come from, such a self-focus doesn't come easily, and can be uncomfortable. But I cannot control anything, anything, outside myself. Beauty, joy, love and truth will certainly exist beyond these shifts, probably in even greater measure than before; those of us who can must consistently personify these positive qualities as events unfold, as kind of a golden path through the darkness.