it is impossible to not feel it. it swirls around us. it stirs us.
this season. a season of light and hope and generosity, a season of consideration and thoughtfulness and compassion, a season of simplicity and complexity, a season of love and grace and possibility. a season of deep gratitude.
we sit still – eyes closed – and take it in.
wishing you these gifts now. wishing you these gifts every day.
“but it’s the holidays!” you protest. and yes, it is.
yet – in these days, in this community, this country, this world – there’s more going on than simply jingling bells and twinkling lights, a sleigh of gifts and eight reindeer, manger scenes and menorahs. and even now – in the middle of all of this – even in the middle of festivities – we need to pay attention.
it’s risky to disagree. it’s risky to push back. it’s risky to declare that which has or those whom have wronged you or others. the membrane is thick and unforgiving, even vindictive. it’s risky to break the code of silence.
but it’s necessary.
to speak the crime/the wrong/the slight – the action or inaction – is not a crime, though those within the bonds of the code would want you to believe that. it is either impossible for them to see the forest for the trees or it has come to the time that no longer matters to them. to step out, to speak out, to speak against, to speak for – all are looked upon as deviant when silence is broken. righteous pontificators rail against the sole “deviant” – the one who stops the actual deviance, the one who holds the actual deviants accountable. they gather troops around themselves, searching for – or convincing – others of their sanctimonious correctness. they are invigorated by the quest to maintain the code – no longer merely complicit – instead, enabling – involving themselves in the dirty deeds of the codemakers. their silence is active, perpetuating the wrong. and the circle exacerbates itself – concentrically outward – into an organization, a community, a government, a country, a world. and it is ugly.
for those out there who are questioning and breaking the code of silence, for those who are pushing back against injustice or inequity, for those who are pulling back the curtain exposing, revealing wrongs – whether small or overwhelming, for those who are not fostering complicity or harboring or sustaining wrongfulness, for those who have reached the place of “enough!”, for those holding fast to the values of goodness, for those who are actively pursuing democratic freedoms of choice for all peoples – i hope this season of light would grant unto you courage and fortitude, empowerment in vulnerability, the ability to stand tall and proud, others to stand with you, trust in the process of bushwhacking your way to revealing truth, accountability in the end, recovery and peace. i hope this season of light reminds you of your value. i hope this season will touch you beyond your wildest imagination and that jingling bells and twinkling lights – and all the other trappings of this season – will dull in comparison to the light you have brought in your deviance – breaking the code of silence and bringing forth truth and justice. you are necessary.
yes. entrenched in the land of hallmark christmas movies. ’tis the season.
two years ago we actually purchased one – our favorite hallmark christmas movie – a season for miracles. and, though we know it by heart – much like my big fat greek wedding or love actually or about time – we watch it over and over, never tiring of its sweet story.
weeks ago, we walked through downtown to mail our voting ballots. having proximity to town and the waterfront – all within walking distance – seems to be one of our leanings for all potential future places to live. the other is to be far away from everything hectic. it’s a toss-up. that late fall day with golden leaves, we walked along the lakefront and then cut in west – past the historic library and library park.
i must never have looked up there, because it took me by surprise.
an angel statue.
there’s history to this statue, but that wasn’t what it brought up for me. instead, it was a reminder of this ultra-sweet hallmark movie, with a very similar angel statue at the center of the fictitious town of bethlehem and a person who looks strikingly like this angel – an angel who is cast as multiple characters in the movie. it’s a heartwarming story.
we spent the rest of the walk, wondering about never noticing this angel statue before and talking about the generosities and grace in the movie we love. it cast a magical quality to our walk that day. we were surrounded by what-felt-like a gentle cloak of hopefulness, of light.
we’ve held off so far. but soon. soon we will pull out this movie and the fleece sherpa blanket on the couch. and we will sit and watch – once again – knowing exactly what is going to happen and still getting teary-eyed. both of us.
it will remind us of those around us without whose goodness we might be lost.
on island he gazed south. here, at home, he gazes north.
it doesn’t matter that there are inches of snow piles on the deck. ever the snowdog, he lays in it, relishing the cold, and gazes north. i wonder what he is thinking.
dogga is rarely still. he seeks the bark-back of other dogs in the ‘hood, standing in the middle of the backyard. he runs around the opposite-traffic-circle sign, around the pond, to the fence, then the other. scoping out, trying to get the attention of simply any other canine.
but there are those moments, in the middle of his self-initiated fray, that he is quiet and still and he poses, like the lions “patience” and “fortitude” flanking the front of the new york public library. “patience” and “fortitude” have been trademarked and are featured in the logo and all of the library’s marketing shenanigans. perhaps dogdog is the branding of our backyard, of our home. gazing north. or – simply – gazing.
for we, too, are gazers. we sit and ponder. we gaze and wonder. we watch the backyard change seasons as we change seasons.
the other day dogga was laying on the bed when i walked into the bedroom. i sat down next to him, his wagawag-tail thumping. i told him all the stuff i was thinking about, because isn’t that one of the reasons we HAVE dogs?
he listened. thump. listened. thump thump thump.
he did not solve anything. he did not answer any of my questions nor did he ask any questions. he did not agree or disagree. he did not argue for reason. he just listened. with patience and fortitude.
were i to lay in the snow with dogdog on the back deck gazing north perhaps i would also have more patience and fortitude in this season of time. at the very least, i would be in the best of company.
“we’re standing at the crossing, where day and night divide. it takes all of your heart to keep the light alive. and the darkness seems so endless until the dawn arrives. we’ll hold the spark between us and keep the light alive.” (“keep the light alive” by lowen & navarro, 1995)
it would seem that we arrive at this place each and every year to see light infinity. there, beckoning, gesturing to us or quietly waiting. the days have run into each other. the successes, the joys, the learnings, the disappointments, the issues, the slights, the worries, anger, hurt, promises kept, promises broken, the new, the old, humanness … all gathered in the place of the light.
the flame reminds us of the spark of love into that which is around us. the flame reminds us of the frailty – just a breeze away from extinguishing. we invest too much in the each-day and not enough in the big-picture. we know that.
the light gives us a little nudge. again. a reminder to allow it. grace, acceptance, forgiveness, hope, love do not cease nor do they choose only one wick, one candle. they continue on. and on. lighting. every one. every where.
we just need intend to allow the light. infinity.
allow the light is all the call implores. allow the light to flood the heart, to flow the veins, to fill the space that craves. allow the light is all. the light is all.
we settled into the ritual with ease. sundown came and we gently removed the tiny wax bits that were left in the menorah. we drew new candles out of the box, placed them in their spots, sparked the shamash, lit each day’s wick, reciting either the words we had researched or blessings we spoke into the universe. when the last night came, as we watched the flames dance in glassware on the table and in the window, we sang. we made up the song and intended it as words of gratitude and a wish for light in all. it has become a new tradition we will continue…there cannot be any reason to not add rituals into the darkness.
we found it to be a time of quiet, these moments as we sat and watched the flickering. we sat, silently, for the menorah was small and the candles only lasted the requisite half hour or so. but a half hour, taken as sweet lull in the day is a good reminder to be still. our days, this season, all will us to go faster, faster. yet, it seems, the best way to move into the rest is to pause.
we made dinner after we celebrated our little festival of lights. sometimes with a favorite cd, sometimes with the local chicago holiday station, music floated around us. though i love singing along to carols, and so many of our old albums conjure up piles of memories, i’ve noticed that the instrumental versions of these gently wrap around us, slow us down a little.
when 20 was over for dinner i mentioned that. “instrumentals would be nice,” i observed as yet another pop singer acrobated her way through a simple carol, over-cadenza-ing into the stratosphere. both 20 and david stared at me like i had lost my mind. they hesitated and then one of them said, “duhhhh.” i stared back, “it’s-not-like-i’m-going-to-put-on-my-own-albums-geeez.” they rolled their eyes.
in a more-is-more faster-and-faster society, there is something to be said for decelerating. there is something about simplifying. there is something about lighting candles and reciting ancient peaceful blessings. there is something about taking the time for quiet and taking the time for celebration. there is something about staring into the reflection of years past, of the week, of today.
we watched the wispy trails of smoke as they faded into the rest of the evening.
one whiff of the good earth non-gmo soy wax cypress-pine candle and i was sold. the holidays in a mason jar with the added bonus of having spent hours of my life in many years past at shows near the founder of this absolutely-good-earth company, a place where brilliant science and creativity and big heart merge. it made me happy to see her products at the boutique shop and, in the way that this season does, makes me want to reach out to her with greetings.
we were in cedarburg on saturday, wanting to participate in the anticipation of christmas. the streets were cold, but the lights were beautiful and the holiday spirit warm and contagious. the wind was brisk so it was a constant cycle of earmuffs on-gloves on-walk-walk-walk-gloves off-earmuffs off-mask on-go into a shop-wander and browse and admire-exit shop-mask off-earmuffs on-gloves on-walk-walk-walk and repeat.
it was a perfect day. we stopped to have a bite to eat – a rarity in these past couple years. there was a giant outdoor tent with tall bistro tables spaced more than socially-distanced apart, fresh air coming in and tall propane heaters scattered about. with our coats on, though unzipped, we sipped an oustanding merlot and shared a burger laden with bacon and mushrooms and grilled onions and some kind of special sauce with a gigantic side of french fries. did i mention perfect?
our day-adventure took us through our favorite shops, the familiar a reassuring hug. in another rarity, we bought a few items – our new candle that tracy made, almond coconut hand lotion from a long island company that smells like an almond joy bar, a pair of fair trade mittens that fit over my finger splint from the everest corner of the world. treasures. we brought home ideas for decorating and fresh energy for the upcoming week.
sitting at the tall bistro table in the tent i glanced around. four girlfriends enjoying a chardonnay, a family surrounded by shopping bags and ribbons, two friends having a shopping extravaganza, an older couple perched on stools finishing lunch and sipping tall glasses of water, our server, delightful despite the busy. i appreciated the mix of the multi-colored and white lights strewn through the tent. the chatter, the joy, delicious anticipation that the rest of the day still stretched in front of us. there would be tiny expressions of graciousness and courtesies and we would see grandiose expressions of the season.
i looked at david and held my hand to my heart, saying nothing. he nodded.
“christmas is here, bringing good cheer. to young and old, meek and the bold. ding, dong, ding, dong, that is their song. with joyful ring, all caroling.” (carol of the bells)
for more than half my life (read: over three decades) i shaped the experience of the christmas holiday season for others. each year i tried to find a way to touch the deepest part of people’s hearts in celebration, to help a story-of-the-ages resonate in their up-to-the-minute lives, to help them, their souls, sink into the light.
this is the first year in recent history (read: decades) that i am not creating the musical shape of anyone else’s holiday. it is the first year in recent history (read: decades) that my dining room table and the top of my piano are not laden with music all strewn about. it is the first year in recent history (read: decades) that i will not spend it racing between planning, arranging, practicing, rehearsing, readjusting, rehearsing, rearranging, readjusting, rehearsing and encouraging big community laughter. it is the first year in recent history (read: decades and decades) that i will not go to church.
i did not create. instead, i tried to file it all away in my head, ignore the intuitive music prompts that my heart issues in the weeks prior to and during this season, silence the ideas and gestures that help to make faith – that which you cannot see – touchable. i did not layer my table or piano with music. instead, i put it all away, in boxes and file cabinets and thick binders. i did not race or plan or arrange or practice or rehearse or readjust or rearrange or even encourage laughter. instead, i sit on the steps in the hall, the stuff of decades decimated, and i wonder. i do not plan to go to church nor do i plan to watch church online; i have had enough.
instead, i will quietly walk outside under a starlit sky. i will light candles. i will extinguish the lamps in the living room and i will watch the lights.
slowly-but-surely-time-rapidly-rushing we are approaching the holidays. with all the concurrent spinning plates wishing i could slow it all down, wishing i could feel it happening. i want to feel the peace of the season, the peace of quiet winter coming on.
wisdom comes from unexpected places. softly. an instagram post here, a text there, a conversation on the phone, a note. people, wittingly and unwittingly, giving me words on which to linger, images in which to immerse, snippets of thoughts to ponder.
i woke up this morning feeling hopeful. a bit more sleep was restorative. i read wise soul-provoking words of my girl; i received an email from a generous stranger.
i started to recall the times in my life when an obstacle was actually a gift, when a turn in the road was the thing that protected me. instead of railing against the current, i am slowly slipping onto the raft that is taken by it.
i took a picture of the blue sky yesterday – just blue – because it was the first blue sky in days. i felt deep gratitude for it and for the sun i could feel on my back as we hiked. the two masked women we passed on the trail raised their hands, fingers outstretched in the symbolic v, and called out, “peace.”
early this morning i sipped coffee that david brought me, my legs stretched out on the bed tightly snugged between dogdog and babycat, both laying ever-so-close. and we spoke of waking a little bit lighter today than yesterday. it doesn’t change the circumstances. but how we are in those circumstances changes us.
and in the slow-but-sure-rapid-rushing-time advent of this winter, this season, this time of quietude and rejuvenation, it allows space for peace.
this is at least the 30th christmas. the 30th one that i was responsible for making sure that other people – in various congregations through the years – feeeeel it. the 30th one where i have chosen music to reflect the season, the love, the light…and to be certain that it was all accessible to the people listening, to be certain it touched them, to be certain it made them think and celebrate, to be certain it spoke to their faith.
i am pretty picky. i don’t like kitschy. i don’t like trite endings. i don’t like certain chord progressions. i don’t like when songs, in an inane effort to be interesting, modulate up in key (the kind of modulation where you expect bubbles to be released into the air). i don’t like certain kinds of lyrics or songs that are preachy. i don’t like songs that imply elitism in any way, including any kind of religious denominational dominance.
i have reviewed a zillion cantatas through the years. (a cantata for a church is a combination of narrative and song, telling a story, embracing a theme, usually anywhere from 30-60 minutes in length. the more traditional cantatas are oftentimes stunningly beautiful but are difficult for volunteer choirs to sing and, frankly, for congregations to sit through.) many more recent cantatas are like buying a record album…many of the songs are really good but there’s always one or two that are throwaways. i have revised every cantata i have ever purchased for a choir. ask any choir director and she/he will tell you that they are revising and improvising on the fly. if they aren’t, well, i just don’t even know what to say about that.
one year, in particular, back in the late 90’s, i was particularly displeased with the cantata samples i had been sent. so i sat down one night and started writing my own. it was the beginning of november and, because we published the actual faxes that went back and forth between me and my producer, you can see that i composed all hours of the day and night and he arranged all hours of the day and night. i had the choir working on drafts that were printed out in the wee hours of the morning, as we continued arranging and re-arranging. the pieces pretty much dropped out of the universe to my hands and i loved conducting this cantata THE LIGHT IS HERE! that year and a few more times through the years since, honing the narration and revisiting the language in an attempt to keep it contemporary. after all, surprisingly, the late 90’s were two decades ago now.
a few nights ago at band practice we were running through the pieces i had selected for this year’s special music schmear (my word instead of ‘cantata’ which is sorely outdated and makes people stay away.) one song, though well-intended, was just plain wrong. so i pulled it out.
the next day i reached for paper and a pencil and wrote a new song for that slot. it’s a solo so at least the choir and the ukulele band don’t have to learn it at this late date (although they are used to having to go-with-the-flow).
in my position as a minister of music, it’s not my job to just play any old thing or direct any old piece, dis-regarding how it speaks to the listener, ignoring whether it is accessible, whether its message is relevant or timely, whether it invites someone in. instead, it’s my job – as i see it – to open listeners’ minds and hearts, to wrap them in music and lyric that resonates, that challenges, that reassures.
someday i will no longer be a minister of music. i will sit on a mountaintop or at the edge of a lake or on a riverbed and i will listen to the sounds of this beautiful earth in celebration of every season. i will not be responsible for making sure others feeeeel it. i will just sit quietly, all the music i could ever need surrounding me.
in the meanwhile, i will be picky. it’s a curse. and i guess a blessing, as they say. picky.
reverse threading 