It has taken a full week to begin writing -
not for lack of want, but focus.
There has been time, but I chose other things.
Love and loss fill my mind.
Yearning for things untouchable, unwinnable.
Yearning for those things that are not yours to grasp,
but yet the yearning persists.
What will replace that yearning?
What is strong enough -
persistent, primitive enough -
to steal that primal desire from your heart?
I stare at the mountain,
losing my center in its hugeness,
forgetting who I am to myself,
wondering if I could exist within its enfolding grasp.
Would I lose myself entirely?
Who would I find, then, within its embrace?
Who is there with me, waiting to break free?
This morning I wanted to talk to my dad about all the church burnings of the past week. I wanted to be soothed, but I also wanted some perspective. My father is a "retired" A.M.E minister who grew up in the Deep South. I thought the events of the last few weeks would be familiar territory for him. When I called he didn't pick up, so I decided to check in with my brother instead.
I just stared at his response. What could that possibly mean??? I never got an answer. My brother is a roofer, and he was probably straddling someone's roof at the time. The more I pondered, the more I thought of the recent police shootings, and I wondered if those events scared this particular brother of mine, who could easily be described as a "big, scary, black guy." Tall, very muscular, and VERY dark after a summer of roofing homes and businesses. Even I'd be afraid of him if I met him in a dark alley - that is, if I didn't know I could scare him away by brandishing a bare foot in his face. He hates feet, for whatever reason. My other brother barely looks black at all - he's very light skinned, almost as light as my mother was. But I wouldn't want to meet him in an alley, either - he is small, but muscular, with a temper. So, this was a prelude to the conversation I had with my father. I was feeling greatly disturbed after reading about the fire at Mt. Zion A.M.E Church in Greeleyville, South Carolina - ironically, the same name of the church where we grew up. At this moment, the authorities believe that lightning probably struck the church, as heavy storms had rolled through and at least 4 lightning strikes were noted in the vicinity. But last night we didn't know this, and what a coincidence for yet another church to be burning! I finally got a hold of my dad, and the first thing I asked was, "So, what do you think about these church fires?" His answer was simple. "It's nothing new." I wasn't sure what kind of answer I was expecting, but I admit to being a little surprised by his somewhat matter-of-fact, non-emotional response. "This is what it was like back then. We've seen all this before." I was kind of amazed by his rational calmness. He didn't scream and shake his fists at the heavens. He just calmly stated what is, what was, and what may be inevitable and accepted it as a possible reality. I envied that calm. Perhaps it comes with age and experience. Next question: "Do you think this is the beginning of something?" His answer - "Yes." Oh. Well, there's a little jump in the stomach. He continued to say that if white people continue to speak out against this, it won't become something bigger - translate: if there is not widespread support for injustice, things will get bad. He said "it used to be" in the south that if you did something people didn't like, you would just disappear. And maybe a little later they would find you hanging in a tree, or they wouldn't find you at all. "I don't think that's going to happen again," he said, "but if it does we're going to have a big problem because people aren't going to stand for it. If white people continue to speak out, then we'll be okay. This is nothing new. This is what it was like back then. I'm not scared, I'm just cautious." Again, that calm, rational tone. I quietly wondered what it felt like like when the "whites" weren't speaking out. He went on to say that some people still aren't willing to accept that things have changed and are continuing to change. The destruction of churches and places of faith for political reasons or to scare a group of people is not a new phenomenon. History books are ripe with these stories - it's old news. This is just one story in a long line of stories about humanity repeating a sordid, sad story. Sadly, this makes me feel better. This is not about me, my family, my community or the color of my skin. It's about fear, which can lead to hate. Fear of what? Fear of change, destabilization, loss of power/influence, fear of the unknown, and more. As human beings, when we fear the loss of the things we hold most dear - no matter what they are - a primal response takes over. What we do next, of course, is what defines us as people. Hate or love. Help or hurt. Change or... or what? Next question: "Should we be scared?" My father said, "No, just be cautious. Ben, too." That's The Hubby. Most of you know he's a white guy. It's sad to say that "mixed" couples are still frowned upon by some. I told my dad that I really don't run into any "problems", and that most of the dirty looks and flack I've ever received was from other black people. He wasn't surprised. I asked, "If we've been through so much, why do we treat each other like that?" We talked a little about some issues some younger family members have had. He said, "A lot of these young kids haven't been taught anything about the civil rights movement. They don't understand what's going on. They haven't been through this. They look at white people and think they're the enemy." We went on for a little while longer before I let him go. I had called because I wanted to be soothed - not today! But I am left with a lot to think about, and a lot to admire about my father and his generation. In much of the news coverage I have seen over the past few weeks, I've noticed a great sea of calm, wisdom, and experience from those aged 60 and over. Many see the signs, and they know what could follow. Many look into the flames of burning buildings, get up the next day, and put on their Sunday best and begin the hard work of forgiveness and rebuilding. Many stare into the faces of people who hate their very existence and don't even flinch. Where does this type of courage and strength come from? I know for many, including my father, it comes from their faith. In conversations about death, I've heard him say on many occasions, "I'm ready" - not because he wants to die, but because he has no fear of it and is confident about what lies ahead. I envy that strength and confidence. And, quite frankly, the vision of watching a group of 60 and 70 year olds stare down the KKK (who is becoming more openly active again) is pretty badass and inspriational, in my opinion. I ended the conversation to let him get ready for a bible study he was leading - so much for being retired. He holds these in his living room, and I joked with him and said that maybe he should pat everyone down when they came in the door. He laughed hard. I wasn't really kidding all that much, honestly. What did I learn? We cannot live in fear. We just can't. We have to be ready to face whatever may be in front of us, and be wise enough to learn from the past. And we all have to be willing to change - whether it means learning to love your neighbor, or learning to forgive.
Like many people, I've had a number of conversations with friends and colleagues about the horrific murders in Charleston last week. We've talked of the shock and the senselessness of it, and how, in the end, nothing of any substance will be done in reaction to it. In a conversation with a friend yesterday, we shared our disappointment in the reaction of much of the greater church - prayers are ascending for sure, but we both asked the question: What is the greater church going to change about itself in response to this loss of life? I asked myself the same question last week. We happened to be on vacation when I read about the shootings. I felt a particular closeness to this event, as my father is a retired A.M.E pastor that still leads Bible study on a weekly basis. In the living room of his house...disturbing images came to my mind. I grew up in an A.M.E. church and imagined what it would have been like and how it would have changed all of our lives if a stranger had come in and shot up the place. I imagined what it would have been like sitting in those chairs at Bible study, after welcoming the young stranger into our midst, to see him pull out a gun and point it in my direction. I imagined the disbelief and the shock, and I truly can only imagine the devastation of the community that is left behind as they grieve this event that has forever changed their lives. This evening I watched "Guess Who's Coming To Dinner" with Katherine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, and Sydney Poitier. If you haven't watched it, you should. It's good stuff. Dr. John Prentice, played by Poitier (black guy, if you didn't know) fell in love with and is planning to marry a young woman named Joey Drayton (white girl). The movie tells the story of how they spring the news on their parents just a short time before they are all to meet for the first time at dinner at the Drayton home. This may not seem like a big deal to most of you but considering this was premiered in 1967, you can bet your boots it was controversial. I was struck by the scene with Tillie, the maid (who you may recognize as Louise Jefferson from The Jeffersons - black woman), and John Prentice. She had previously shown her displeasure to her employers in waiting on the young, black doctor and gives him a hard time - a very hard time - using very harsh words with respect to the young lady she worked hard to help raise. The gist of her argument - he'd better not do anything to mess with that. And if a black man wanted to marry a white woman in 1967, something good was being messed with. The scene reminded me of a similar situation in the movie "Django Unchained", which is set in the Old West and Antebellum South. Django, played by Jamie Foxx (black guy) is trying to rescue his wife from the clutches of a horrible plantation owner, played by Leonardo DiCaprio (white guy). I found the movie brutal and extremely offensive. The scene that gave me pause, however, was when the "butler" of the plantation, played by Samuel L. Jackson (black guy), refuses to wait on Django, who is a guest in disguise at the plantation. Jackson's character calls Django out for being uppity and stepping out of his place. He refuses to wait on someone who is no better than himself, no matter how fancy his dress. In both movies, I found myself asking the same question: Why do we treat each other this way? Are we jealous of those who look like us who seem to have made out better in life? Do we resent the uneducated black person because they may reflect poorly on us to others? Do we frown upon the light-skinned person - the "high yellow heifer", as I was called as a child - because they fraternize so easily with whites? Do we dismiss the dark-skinned person as a non-person because they will never "blend in" with the rest of society? The answer is yes to all of these things, and to many more What does this have to do with Charleston? For me, everything. I think we are often hardest on those closest to us, and this is true for myself. I have been hard on and judgmental of black culture for many reasons, and some of these reasons have a lot of validity. This has to change. I have said, as many others have, that if you put yourself in bad situations - like committing crimes and running from the police - you run a greater risk of losing everything, including your life. I was appalled by the horrible police shootings of the past year (there are so many to pick from) when unarmed black men (mostly) were shot by negligent police officers. But there was always a small part of me that said, "But I'm not surprised." This has to change. Like many others, my shock and horror at these events faded after a few weeks, and I went on with my life. Until I saw the video of those kids at that pool party in Texas. Until I read about those people losing their life because they decided to go to Bible study last week. I have to change. I don't know what that change will look like. But I do know that I am a part of the problem with humanity I complain about. And that has to change.
It started with one word. FEEL Nothing else, just that one word. A man walked around the word, dragging his stick in the sand. Deepening, clarifying, until there was no mistaking it.
FEEL
We watched while we sipped our morning coffee, which eventually turned into breakfast, which eventually turned into afternoon coffee with cards.
And he was still there. But now there were more words. I AM BLESSED FEEL THE BLESSINGS People strolled by as he continued to tinker, to perfect. Dogs ran after thrown objects, children squealed with glee as the cold water washed over their feet. Soon, there was another letter. J I AM BLESSED FEEL THE BLESSINGS What was next? We couldn't help walking out to the balcony to take occasional glances. Was he going to spell Jesus? Well, that would be kind of obvious. A quick glance said no - you could clearly see the beginning of a U forming in the sand. Hmm. Hours passed and cards continued. Snacks were eaten. Little boys quarrelled. Some adults smacked hands in victory, while others threw their cards down in disgust. The sun warmed the air, and the sound of the ocean was a constant comfort in the not-too-distant background. And there were more words. JUST SAY I AM BLESSED FEEL THE BLESSINGS The thought was finished. Passersby stopped to consider his words as the tide began to come in. The man attempted to reform the words as the water washed them away. He was diligent, this stranger, and patient. No movement was rushed or panicked - just deliberate. We commented on it as we played, and continued with our fun. Between hands, we'd stretch and find another snack or rest our butts from the hard chairs. There was always time for a quick check of our strange friend's progress outside. I AM BLESSED FEEL THE BLESSINGS JOY IS LIFE The tide wins, as it always does. The water washes the words away, much as life often does. The ocean remind us that blessings don't last forever. That stranger reminded us that even though change is inevitable, we keep working and looking for blessings, even if they wash away right before our eyes.
This year I was all jazzed about writing weekly reflections for Advent - pairing them with O Antiphons, even. But, of course, this did not happen, as life intervened yet again and the days and the hours slipped silently away. I was, however, invited to write a reflection on a piece of music for Advent for a site called ecclesio.com - you can read it here. This will be the extent of my spiritual musings for the season. Off into another direction we go... I learned a new word this week - hiraeth. It's a Welsh word that is somewhat difficult to translate, but according to the Facebook Oracle (which is gospel truth), it means, "a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past." I read this and was suddenly flooded with images in my head - images and feelings and pieces of hopes and dreams that seemed forever broken and lost and impossible to recapture. Here was the place where those disturbing middle-of-the-night dreams originate. Here were those nagging thoughts in my brain to which I could never put a name or a face or an idea. Hiraeth. The definition itself has a bizarre, vague clarity to it, describing something that is tangible but only because you can never really put your hands on it. It's that moment of clarity that lasts for 5 seconds in your head, and then disappears. It's the swirling, wisps of morning fog that dissipate the moment you walk through them. It's that elusive lightning bug that always carried the possibility of holding a fragile, wondrous glow in the palm of your hand before it disappears and leaves you with a rather gross-looking bug. Hiraeth. What is this home? Is it a place? Is it a people? Is it a state of mind? Maybe it's that little girl who, years ago, was full of dreams and fantasies about what the future would look like. Maybe it's that not-so-little girl who, no-so-many years (weeks?) ago accepted that the dreams of that little girl really were fantasies, and that life sometimes is exactly what it looks like. And sometimes that really isn't very interesting or inspiring at all, but feels gray, dull, and death-like. Or maybe, just maybe, the home we are really yearning for does not and cannot exist. It is utopia, complete in its double meaning: the "not" place, and the "perfect" place. And that makes us want it even more. Hiraeth. It haunts. And yet, is also inspires a dream of something even more fantastical. Maybe this home will be filled with the warmth of the people we want to have in our lives, but cannot. And maybe those people will only haunt its rooms for eternity, in their trail the pleasures and pains of nostalgia. Whatever this "this" is, it leaves us incomplete, and our homesickness is a disease that, seemingly, will never heal.
I have never been a morning person. In fact, my mother
used to call me “Evil-ina” as a child when I reluctantly descended the
stairs. For me, morning was always the
time to shrink back underneath the covers and pretend that just a few more
minutes of closing your eyes in the darkness would do the trick. These days, mornings are my favorite – especially
days like today when I don’t have to be anywhere. I rather enjoy stumbling
around the house in my bathrobe searching for that first, elusive cup of
coffee, strains of “The Golden Girls” on the tv in other room as I stare
blankly out the window, ignoring the lawn that needs to be cut, reveling in all
the changing colors, but not the neighbors leaves on the grass…ah, fall.
I work from home most Wednesday, although
things seem to get scheduled on these days with annoying frequency. In theory, Wednesdays – at least the mornings
– are supposed to be all about me. It’s
not selfish. It’s survival.
At this morning’s brain feeding at the time-sucking
trough of Ye Facebook Oracle, I came across 2 articles – this one here about understanding and living with the things we feel like we’ve lost (even
though, perhaps, we haven’t lost them yet), and this one here about Millennials and high church. These
articles seemingly have nothing do with each other, but the combination of
the two unleashed some powerful stuff.
I had an immediate, irrepressible urge to write. For me, writing is much like music and the
need to get on the instrument - gotta have it, gotta have it now, when the
heart says it’s time. Screw the world
and its schedule. It’s not a need,
it’s a NEED. I opened up my blog
interface, was assaulted by that dark page with the red candles on it, and I
just couldn't do it. I clicked the “x”
and moved on to Word.
Under the Cassock.
A cassock that has been a suffocating, torturous presence – a reminder
of hurt and loss, of unanswered prayers.
A hurt that is deep, because it is mixed with joy and success and music
and life changing opportunities. I can’t
integrate these things together in my mind.
These feelings can’t possibly coexist.
I don’t want this cassock anymore.
I don’t believe in it
Or do I?
I have struggled mightily with my beliefs and with my
faith. Do I believe in God? Yes.
Probably. Most of the time. Probably all of the time, but sometimes I don’t
want to – not always because of God, but because of all the ‘stuff” that comes
with God, even though it really has no place there. “They” – you know, those
people - say that “God’s presence is with us through the people around us.” Really?
Even when those you love and to whom you are closest disappoint you and
fail you in massively destructive ways? What
a cruel joke. Some other “they” will
probably say, “Well, Nicole, if your faith was stronger you would accept that
this is God’s path for you, and would just bow your head lower and pray for
Jesus to take all your pain away.”
I think “they” are full of it.
God doesn't promise that to take all our pain away – not in
this lifetime. God promises to be a
presence in our lives through EVERY time, difficult and joyful. And guess what – his presence mostly comes
through those people up there who, at times, fail and disappoint us. See?
Here I am making arguments for God in the midst of doubting him. Perhaps I was just well indoctrinated as a
child. Or, perhaps faith is a living,
breathing, organic being that can never tolerate being static. <Sigh> Sometimes the truth is annoying.
Do I believe in The Church? No.
Absolutely not. It’s a dream that
will never become a reality. Too many
people posturing, hurting, hiding, making it all about themselves instead of about
God. “But, Nicole,” you may say, “don’t you
‘work’ in a church? Doesn't your ‘work’ require
you to fill a pastoral and educational role that, if you really don’t believe
in The Church, would make you a hypocrite?”
Why yes, yes it does.
Well, in a way. I work in that
little community because I love those people.
Some of us have been through quite a bit together, and some of us are
making new, awesome memories as we speak. And throughout all these things, we
come and worship together every week, even when we don’t want to be there. There are times when I cannot wrap my mind
around these things coexisting together; times when all that hurt, loss and
unanswered prayer seems insurmountable, and the best thing to do is turn your
back on it and walk slowly and deliberately towards something else. But then those NEW things come bouncing along
and for just a few minutes, I can forget about the hurt. And the hurt drifts farther, and farther away. Don’t get me wrong – it's still
there. Just in a fuzzy, indiscernible
shape on the horizon. Some wise person might
say, “Well, duh, Nicole, that is The Church.”
Wish I could see it.
I used to have a lot of interesting conversation with friends
and colleagues about faith and church. I
used to enjoy them. Now they just make my
head hurt. I learned a lot about God as a
child – hard to avoid it as a Preacher's Kid, but we tried our best. I also heard a lot of people talk about their
relationships with God. Most of this
talk happened on Sundays mornings in some liturgical or teaching context. What I never really learned is that doubt is
ok. Doubt about anything, really. How else can we really learn what is truth to
us if we don’t explore every side of that truth? That would have been a nice little nugget to
pack away as a child – ignored at first, like every other seemingly unimportant
parental teaching, but then discovered later on like your favorite piece of
candy in your pocket when lunch is still an hour away and you skipped breakfast.
I suppose the beauty in all this is that different people
see different things, and THAT is the beauty of life, the very life of what is
beauty. I can love it, you can hate it,
and yet “it” is still there for someone else to interpret and breathe in. I think, perhaps, there is a wee bit of The Church in that thought.
Counterpoint: The technique of combining two or more melodic lines in such a way that they establish a harmonic relationship while retaining their linear individuality; Use of contrasting elements in a work of art; To set in contrast.
New Year’s is such a metaphor for new life – for change and
all that comes with. It almost seems built
into our DNA to think about what we will change in the new year, and how we
wish to change ourselves. How can we
make life new? How can we make ourselves
new? Many of us spend time making lists
and promises to ourselves and others about how things will be different or in
some cases, promises to keep putting energy into the things that are currently
working well. Maybe it’s the group
mentality of it, like the secret pinky promises between the bestest friends of
our youth, that make this particular ritual so powerful.
I wish I could say I’ve been pondering the power of new
life, but I’ve actually been thinking a lot about death lately, and find myself
being confronted with my own fear of dying alone and not knowing what comes
next. (I am tempted to say, “who knows
why,” but we all have our demons and I know mine well.) But I was lucky this New Year’s Eve to spend
the early afternoon with a group of people in their 60’s and older – all vibrant
in their own way, but dealing with their own late life issues. What struck me most that afternoon was the anecdotal
stories about friends and acquaintances who were 100 and older and of more than
sound mind, if not of whole body. Now, for
the most part, my family is fairly long-lived – especially the women – but I’ve
never really thought about living until I was 100. That’s another 62 years on this earth. Dude, that’s a long time. And if centenarians are out there looking
forward to their next days with a sense of adventure, it seems silly for 38
year old me to be so concerned with the next 5-10 years, especially since I
have absolutely no control over many of the things that weigh on my mind.
The older I get, the more I understand myself. One would think this would make life a little
easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes me
feel older and more alone. I actually
kind of miss the blind recklessness of youthful decisions – going on instinct
and just doing things because they feel right or seem like the right thing to
do without the weight or knowledge of experience poking its opinion into
things. And many times, those decisions
are right. And when we make mistakes, we
chalk it up to youth and inexperience.
Next time we will know better, and hopefully, we move on to make smarter
decisions.
But as I look into the new year, I don’t think it’s that
simple. I don’t know if there are “right”
and “wrong” decisions. There are simply
decisions, and they all come with their own set of consequences that have the
potential of affecting our lives in a myriad of different ways. Just because we choose to “do the right thing”
does not mean that everything that follows is golden. There is no path that is true north. Everything goes crooked every once in a
while, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
There can be some interesting things growing on those crooked pathways –
things that lead us to a better understand of ourselves, the ones we long, and
the world around us.
So what do I resolve to do this year? Not sure about that. There’s nothing more soul crushing than
making promises to yourself that you can’t/don’t/won’t keep. I know better than to wish for health and prosperity
– sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just get what you get. But I think this year it’s worth making an
EFFORT – not a PROMISE, because promises just seem too absolute to me anymore –
to ponder LIFE and all its forked and crooked pathways. To ponder the possible adventures ahead –
maybe 62 more years of them – and to be hopeful and thankful for the wise souls
that we cross on those crooked paths that help us keep our perspective on the
scary stuff in our minds that go unspoken.
Dear God, I know we don't really talk anymore. Correction: I don't really talk anymore. I just haven't had the heart to do it. I know you're there. And I know that you know that I know that you're there. I'm just...tired of the whole thing. Someone told me it's ok to say and feel that. Someone else told me that it shows a lack of faith. I think that second person is wrong. Me. Dear God, Sometimes I feel that I love you but I don't like you. Sometimes you're too hard for me to handle. Someone told me it's ok to say and feel that. Someone else told me they were praying for my soul because of it. I appreciate all the prayer I can get, but I think that second person's motives are a bit misguided. Me. Dear God, I really don't want to say anything to you right now. You know what's going on in here, anyway. I appreciate you toughing it out with me, though, and I love you for it. But for now, all I'm capable of is throwing some random thoughts in your general direction. Someone told me it's ok to say and feel that. Someone else told me it wasn't enough and that's why I couldn't hear you like I used to. I think that second person is wrong. I know you're there. I just choose not to listen. Maybe I should try to spend a little more time with that second person, anyway. Me.
Sometimes I do some of my best thinking at night. And by "at night" I mean between the hours of 2 am and 6 am. The middle of the night, really, or Middle Night, as I like to call it. It has more of a poetic and less pathetic ring to it. So here I am in the Middle Night, after being up for 2 or 3 hours. I spent the time trying to think positive thoughts because I wanted to avoid a repeat of the ginormous black widow spider dream I had the night before. It's my own personal version of the "chase" dream, being stalked by a big, hard-shelled black arachnid with a red hourglass on its forehead...but I digress. The Middle Night is also the time I end up wrestling with my biggest demons, for whatever reason. Perhaps being surrounded by darkness makes the mind, though tired, vivid with imagination. Or maybe it's the fatigue itself that chases away rational thought. Whatever it is, it's annoying. But tonight, for once, my musings were dispassionate and lucid. These days I am calling myself a "concert organist", well, because I am. I do not currently have a faculty position at a college or conservatory (mostly by choice) and I've retreated from the church music world enough that it just doesn't seem truthful anymore to label myself as a church musician as my primary professional identity. It's also an unconscious yet conscious way to distance myself from the stress of the past 2 years or so. But as a musician, I find it difficult to label myself as anything else but a musician. It's not just a part of who I am, but a guiding force behind my identity. And not just because of the beauty of music itself, but because of what it represents - life. Life in all its ups and downs, in all its beauty and ugliness. Music is an expression of that up and down beauty and ugliness, and music as a process is an expression of the process we call life. At least, that's how I see it. But here's my revelation. For the past year I've been trying, for the life of me, to figure out how a life that was built on all the "right" principles, with the "right" spirit, and with the obligatory blood, sweat, and tears could be so quickly taken - stolen - from underneath you. It's not as if we weren't all paying attention. But yet, it happened. Perhaps it's happened to you at some point, too. It made me think: "Well, perhaps you weren't as happy as you thought you were." "Perhaps it wasn't as good as you thought it was." And here's the kicker - "Perhaps YOU aren't as good as you thought you were." Once you start down that road, you begin doubt yourself and everything that makes you what you are. In essence, you erase yourself out of existence. And it's not out of self pity. It's just dispassionate, rational thought, really. Or so you think. Oh, Nicole, this is so depressing, you say. But hang on, here's the good part. I think that "extraordinary life", that "mountaintop experience", or whatever you call that thing that you strive for - that shining goal in the distance you raise all your standards in expectation of is actually a very fragile thing. It's not a solid fortress built on top of an impenetrable mountainside made from years of study and experience. It's a small, shining, crystalline sphere of hope and imagination floating just above our reach that is as bright as the hottest sun but as fragile as the tiniest, thinnest sliver of ice. It takes the whole of our very souls to keep it suspended in mid air for that period of time for which it lives. But it only takes the clench of one or two or three fists to shatter it to pieces. We could attempt to build an impenetrable wall around it, but that would only shield us from bathing in those beautiful rays. We could only share with those we think of as "safe" enough to get near it, but then it would lose some if its brilliance. I know there is truth in this, but it's a frustrating truth. Why is something that took so much time and effort to build so freaking fragile? It doesn't seem to make much sense, but I feel in the depth of my soul that it is true. The mistake we make - well, the mistake I made - is that I only saw one very fragile crystalline sphere in my future, when in fact there are an infinite number floating around the ether - floating around our imaginations just waiting to be thought into existence. We just tend to get sidetracked and put on blinders when the one right in front of us starts to form, and then we can't even see the forest of possibilities that still lie around us. This, of course, does not lessen the pain watching the first one smash to pieces. But it does give me a little hope - more than a little hope - that this very brilliant, very virulent, very overwhelming, very fragile sphere of hope and happiness and imagination can be created. Again. But different, this time. Now - back to the spiders...
I was a big Judy Blume fan growing up as a kid. In fact, I was a big book fan, period. (Still am, but I think now you'd call it a book junkie.) We used to have Book Fairs at our elementary school - remember those? They would pass out those small, newspaper circular-like catalogs of delight where I could gleefully plot the direction in which my imagination would be turned. I remember the unbelievable freedom I felt while shopping for those books. Book Fairs were the only instances I can remember as a child where my parents never restricted how much I could buy. The sky was the limit, and I was usually that kid who came home carrying her books in one of the boxes they were shipped in. On Book Fair days we could be picked up by our parents instead of taking the bus home, and I remember waiting with glee in the school cafeteria, staring out the big windows for the familiar car. I spent the whole ride home wishing my mother would drive faster so I could choose the first book to be read. Once home, I would drop my bookbag full of homework just inside the door (which to my father's annoyance made the most effective doorstop when he tried come in after work) and plop myself and my box on the end of the couch and choose. And then I would read. And read. And read. Boy, do I miss that kind of excitement.
"Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" was one of the many, many books I read as a child. It was about a young girl who grew up with a Christian mother and a Jewish father and was searching for a single truth for herself. I actually did not remember that part of it until I Googled it earlier - it was the title itself that popped into my head. It got stuck there as I pondered my own search to find God "again". Over the past several months I've had a number if conversations with many different people of all ages about faith and belief and just about everything that intersects with those things. And do you know what the one common denominator is? Doubt. Doubt about many things. The very existence of God, or the existence of anyGod, for that matter. The value of faith communities. The transparency of organized religion. The validity of the doctrines and practices of different denominations. The genuineness of "devout" Christians and Christian leaders. And it seems that underneath that doubt lies the other common denominator- fear.
Now, Nicole, you say, you can't have two common denominators!!! That may be true, but where you find one you usually find the other. And the truth us, fear and doubt are two very human responses that we are so often told are signs of weakness and lack of true commitment when it comes to faith. And you know what? That's just crap. We all have our own fears and doubts in life, and in my own life the exploration of these doubts and fears have led to some pretty extraordinary discoveries about God, faith, and myself. The key for me has always been to not allow myself to be paralyzed by doubt and fear, but to find a way to work through them to the other side. And don't get me wrong - it doesn't always work out. I don't always "work on it", and I often end up wrestling with the same stupid demons over and over again. I have found myself lying awake at night wondering if God was really up there anyway, and did it really matter if I did the right thing even though no one would ever see only to wake up in the morning wondering what in the world I ate the night before that brought such ridiculous thoughts to my head. And while I've never really been afraid of death, per se, I know that when I'm pondering these things in the middle of the night I am terrified that when the time does come that I will die alone. And then morning comes and I roll my eyes at myself and move on. Maybe I should work on my "middle of the night madness" next...
I refuse to believe this makes me less faithful, or even any less strong. It makes me human. I am not perfect, and I never want to be. I want to become the person I was meant to be by living into the potential that has been built into my soul. I know that God put that potential there and gave me the tools to achieve it. I just don't always see it or have the patience to look for it. But hey, that's my struggle. Being faithful doesn't mean being perfect. So every once in a while I will stare into the ceiling lit by the occasional light of the moon, notice with disgust the spots I missed with the paintbrush, and say, "Are you there, God? It's me, Nicole." Hopefully those times are few and far between. But despite the doubts that may be momentarily running through my head, I can take some assurance in the fact that I still crave to have the conversation and that God is still listening.
I've had the Grieg score above for 20 years,
probably.And it looks like it’s been
through a war – the front cover is attached with scotch tape and the back cover
has been missing for years.It’s dirty,
used and abused, and the funny thing is I haven’t played most of the pieces in
it.I’m sure most people would say, “Nicole,
you should take better care of your scores!”
But when I look at that book, I see stories – I see my
life. I see practicing my mother’s old spinet
piano when I was first started taking lessons, reading from the manuscript
paper my first teacher used to write musical examples for me. I see the “Dozen a Day” exercise books with
the dancing stick figures at the beginning of every exercise. I see my sister and me trading spots at the
piano, one sister dancing while the other sister played. I see hurriedly throwing the books into a
haphazard pile into my music bag – black with treble clefs on it (wouldn't be
caught dead with that now). I see train
rides to Bryn Mawr to the piano lessons which I learned to hate in the end,
sitting on the aging orange plasticky seats on the Septa train cars. I see the beautiful, colonial mansion of the
Conservatory where I took those lessons, with its antique furniture and
wallpaper waiting for me as I walked through the back parking lots from the
station. I can smell the air in that house;
I can hear the creak of the old wood floors.
I can remember buying every piano score that
I own, and I can remember every occasion for buying them. A flood of images
sweep through my mind as I think about rifling through file drawers for slim Heller scores,
sliding the smooth, sleek Chopin volumes off the shelf. They smelled so new, so promising. In those pages was my future, my
imagination brought to life. Everything I could imagine could become real in those notes, and I remember when I brought every single
one of those books into my life.
Except that Grieg.
Perhaps it was a “borrowed” score from my teacher that I never
returned. And she certainly wouldn't want it back when she saw its stained, dog-eared pages. But that’s what makes it mine. Including the squashed, dead spider between
two of the pages, tracing my glorious relationship with those gross creatures
back through the years (I was always too afraid to touch its dead body to
scrape it off the page). Perhaps it
seems weird to tell your life story through a pile of books – a pile of work
tools, really – but the thought brings a smile.
And as I think about what I want in the new year, what I will grasp as
part of my life, I close my eyes and find myself in the aisles of that music
store with a thick score in my hands, fanning the pages as the notes run across
the page just waiting for me to catch them.
And just that quickly, my imagination encounters the future once more.
“He felt that the truth was about to reveal itself, and yet it was disconcerting.”
Detective Harry Bosch
I am always reading some book or another. Well, in truth, I’m always “listening” to some book or series of books on my IPhone. I’ve been cycling through Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch novels about a gritty homicide detective based in Los Angeles/Hollywood. Good stuff, if you like police dramas and detective stories. But dark stuff, as well. Bosch considers finding murderers his calling – his vocation – and his only concern is finding the truth, no matter what the cost. And sometimes that cost is his own soul.
I’ve never had any interest in being a cop, but the law has always fascinated me. Ever since I was a kid I wanted to be a lawyer. I imagine it stemmed from going to work with my mother who worked for a court reporter at the Federal Courthouse in downtown Philadelphia. 601 Market Street. I can still remember the address more than 20 years later, and if you want to hop on a train with me from the Berwyn station on the Main Line outside of Philadelphia I could take you right there without missing a step. It was within spitting distance of Ben Franklin’s house, Betsy Ross’s house, the Liberty Bell and Independence Mall. You could smell history in the air mixed with the exhaust from Septa buses and the aroma of hot dogs and pretzels out of the stands on the street corners. I loved being downtown in the hustle and bustle, especially during the holidays. We used to buy purses (we called the pocketbooks out east) and socks from the vendors who set up outside the mall, and there was a jewelry lady on a corner close by where we always stopped to look at earrings. And of course, it wouldn’t be a trip to the city without some strange man opening a trench coat lined with toothbrushes and other personal toiletry items to sell. “Just keep walking and don’t look at them,” my mother would always say. And that’s how I learned to survive in the city without being pegged as a tourist.
I loved going to work with her – riding the train with all the men and women in suits clutching their briefcases; watching the women fast-walk in their gleaming white sneakers (high heels hidden in their briefcases, of course); going through the metal detector at the courthouse where the security guards all knew my mother because of the hours she worked – a lot of nights – and the flower she wore in her hair. That kind of fashion faux pas was acceptable in the 70’s and 80’s, and in those days the metal detector did not object to the small pair of scissors in her purse which she used to clutch in her hand when walking to the train station late at night. She was city-tough and beautiful to boot.
One of the things I loved and remembered most was the food eaten on these trips. (You see? Even then I loved food.) We always got off the train at Market East, the last stop on the R5 line into downtown. This dumped you out into The Gallery - the mall where I once got separated from my mother while shopping on Christmas Eve, and she not only had my brother and sister posted on the second floor so they could scan the crowd for me but also had the police on the lookout. I can’t imagine how freaked out she was. Of course, I was walking around without a worry from store to store, and even though I couldn’t find my mother I knew my grandmother was waiting in the train station for us to finish. I had actually stopped to sit with her for a few seconds before I went back out into the mall to look for my mom. Of course, when I was found by my brother and sister who screamed, “There she is!” from the second floor loud enough for Jesus to hear it, I got the angry, “Where were you???” yell from my mother which no doubt masked the building fear underneath. But I digress.
When the weather was bad, you could walk from the Gallery through a small, indoor food market, then past a few decorative windows that looked into fabled downtown department stores like Abram and Strauss as you entered into another smaller mall/office building called the Mellon Independence Center. This was a bit more posh and served a lot of the business people through its restaurants – the obligatory Au Bon Pain and Dunkin Donuts, plus a number of other small “mom and pop” type stands where you could get a quick lunch and/or breakfast to go on your way to the office. These little shops opened up into a large, atrium of gray and black marble with many small tables and a baby grand piano keep people occupied while they munched. I loved this place. But work waits for no one. We would take the escalator upstairs and walk out the front doors onto Market Street. From here, the courthouse was just on the next block over. But first, a stop on 7th street at the first stand to grab a fruit salad for lunch. Yum. But enough about food.
The federal courthouse was perhaps not the most imposing building in the city, but you felt the importance of it as you walked in the doors. This was the place where Cosa Nostra was put on trial, for crying out loud. The hallowed halls of history and justice. There were 3 or 4 revolving doors at the entrance of the tall, brick building which turned you out into a large, dark foyer with several escalators up to the main lobby area. The ceilings were impossibly high, and as a small person you felt as if you were walking into a temple of sorts. And in a way, I believe that’s what these places are supposed to be – a temple for the truth.
Any attorney reading this is probably laughing their socks off at this point. And perhaps those of you out there that have been involved in any legal action are laughing as well. But I do believe that in its essence, the practice of law and the legal system are about the search for The Truth. In reality, it seems the proper definition would be that they are the search for A Truth - perhaps not The Truth - that those involved in the argument can agree upon or must be forced to accept. Perhaps even a shade of The Truth, or in some cases a complete reconstruction of it. But underneath it all there is still the quest for the actual truth and I believe that there are still a few faithful seekers out there who haven’t given up the quest.
Why are you talking about these things in the middle of Advent, Nicole? Well, because I think those of us who are seeking something – some name it as God, some as inner peace, some as spirituality – are actually seeking The Truth, not A Truth. And The Truth is a hard thing to find and define, whether it is the truth of a human situation or the spiritual truth of our existence. And while Advent (and Lent, for that matter) is a season of waiting and preparation, it is also a season of seeking, just as three “Wise Men” sought the birth of a small, defenseless child in the middle of a desert. Think of how ridiculous and impossible a task that was – ridiculous and impossible without a ridiculous and impossible faith to guide them to The Truth which they knew in their hearts they would find.
The journey to The Truth is an impossible journey. And at times a ridiculous one. But a necessary one, all the same. And at some point we have to come to the realization that when we find the truth, we are most likely incapable of understanding it and accepting it because it is JUST TOO BIG for us, even though it may seem so small and so simple. And that is indeed disconcerting. But we keep seeking, just the same. I think it’s built into our DNA. We can only live in darkness for so long until it begins to cost us our souls. Without a soul, we are only a slave to the darkness that has overtaken us. And that is why we keep trudging through the desert to find and wrestle with that impossible, ridiculous, small, and defenseless Truth.
As much as I usually complain about winter, the truth is I love this time of year. There's something about the sparkle of snowflakes in the crisp, fresh air; the crunch of frozen snow underneath your boots, full of thick fur to keep your feet warm; the promise of a warm mug of a steaming, yummy smelling beverage just waiting to be made at home. Of course, over the years I've learned to add a little something-something to that hot beverage to make it even smoother...we'll just call it Adult Hot Chocolate. But I digress...there seems to be magic in the air, no matter what tradition you follow. Everyone is full of expectation of something, even if it's only the next snow storm.
As the picture above intimates, it's Decorating Time. I sort of dread it every year - the dragging of the tree (all fakey-fakey here) and the lugging of the oh-so-cheeky red and green tote bins full of decorations from the attic. And for the last few years I've been more and more grateful for my neurotic sense of organization when I open the bins and find the boxes of ornaments neatly tucked in together like Legos, the loose tinsel used like packing material to protect the ornaments floating free without boxes. Genius, I tell you. This year was the best, though. The whole downstairs is FINALLY painted and repaired (well, for the most part) and the deep, red and gold of the living room walls seems like a perfect accompaniment to the festive cheer of George (!), our prelit Christmas Tree.
I love him. The best part of decorating this year was opening the mysteriously heavy Christmas tins I found in the bins. I couldn't for the life of me remember what was in them.
Every year it seems we are gifted with these little tins filled with edible holiday cheer (LOVE that kind of holiday cheer!) and every year I hate the thought of throwing the tins away. And I don't. And every year we end up with a bigger and bigger collection of containers that can really only be used once a year. A few years ago I found the best solution - more ornament boxes!!! All the small, flat ornaments that for some reason have no package are carefully wrapped in wax paper and cotton balls and snugly put to bed in their favorite Christmas tin. Most of these ornaments are some of our most treasured gifts from friends, many of them handmade. And I'm not one of those people who remembers what kind of ornaments they have hidden up in the attic (what was for breakfast this morning???) so it was truly a surprise to open those tins and rediscover the generosity within them. All this preparation and excitement for a day that seems to come and go in the blink of an eye! It reminds me of prepping for a recital - hours and hours of practicing for a little over an hour of REALLY hard work, and who knows what's going to happen in the end? Trust me, sometimes no one is more surprised than I when the notes come out of the instrument. But the more I think about it, living through this time of year is a very similar process. Advent is all about waiting and preparing - but for who knows what? We think we know - the birth of Christ, silly! But part of what we are waiting for is the mysterious birth of unknown treasures in the upcoming year - the treasures of the world to come. The new surprises under the "trees" that grow into our lives. The rediscovering of the old memories we've neatly packed up into the "tins" in our brains that get opened year after year when we meet for our ritual celebrations of birthdays, holidays, and plain old partying for no reason. So much to look forward to! But we all know that all the "surprises" won't be good ones - in fact, there are probably some things which won't be surprises at all and will be painful to endure. And sometimes the memories suck - we all have those, so there's no need to elaborate. But the hope and anticipation of all the good that WILL be coming our way is a part of the magic of the season of Advent and can transform our lives, IF we allow it. What potential these few weeks have! The potential of the world to come - a world that will be changed forever because of what at the time seemed like a small, insignificant event that continues to ripple throughout the generations. And what a shame if we miss seeing this potential in the hustle and bustle and craziness of all that preparation. Don't get me wrong - the party never happens without that busy-body, Martha. She's always painted as the heavy, but who will be the first to complain if there's no cheese and crackers to go with the wine??? But we can't forget to spend a little time with free-spiriting, free-wheeling Mary along the way. Because the party is just no fun without her, and she's probably the sister that keeps a little flask of something-something hiding in the corner... Happy Advent!
Today, like many of my colleagues, I came across a ridiculous op-ed piece in the Boston Globe called "Save the church! (kill the organs)" - you can read it here. Needless to say, blood began to boil. Tempers flared. Eyes rolled. Some might say we are an overly sensitive bunch, we organists, but the truth is we are tired of being the Whipping Boy (or Girl) for those lamenting the decline in attendance on Sunday mornings (or Saturday evenings). My first response was to repost the article on Facebook, of course, accompanied by a snarky comment about the author of the piece. Maybe that wasn't fair, but as my older brothers used to say - don't dish it out if you can't take it. Here's the deal: there are MANY, MANY, MANY reasons why attendance is down across the country. Do the research. You can no more say it's the music than you can say it's the horrible taste of the communion wine. But if we are really going to face the issue, we as church musicians must take some of the heat. The truth is, there are MANY, MANY, MANY worship services out there that are led with poorly played, poorly chosen music. It's just the truth. And again, there are MANY, MANY, MANY reasons for this. Such as: There aren't enough well-trained organists/musicians available, so churches are forced to use unqualified people. The pay is horrendous, so those who are well trained don't/can't take the positions where they are needed most. The instruments are horrible and not well-maintained, which in turn does not encourage the congregation to sing well. The leadership - lay or clergy - do not put enough emphasis on the quality of the liturgy. The clergy and the musician for some reason can't play well together in the sandbox - doesn't matter who threw sand in who's eyes first - so the liturgy and the community suffers. SOMEONE is lazy. The congregation/clergy/musician/whoever doesn't care about quality - they only want to entertain or be entertained. Not enough time is allotted in the musician's schedule for service preparation. The clergy has never received enough/proper training in liturgy and music. The musician and clergy do not respect each other. And perhaps the most important - The leadership/clergy and musician are not on the same page regarding the vision for the liturgy and the community.
Now, I will probably get blasted by some of my colleagues for saying these things, but sometimes it IS our fault as the musicians. Perhaps not as individuals, but as a collective group. Let me tell you a story: Many years ago (and I mean, a lot) a workshop addressing the professional concerns of organists was held as part of a larger conference. Luminaries in the field were invited to be a part of a panel discussion to answer questions and give guidance and advice out of their vast knowledge and experience. Someone brought up the issue of compensation, and the difficulties many organists had when it came to being paid a fair wage and how much more difficult it was to get a raise while working for a church. Discussion ensued, and one particular panel person said something to the effect of, "Well, before we even discuss getting a raise, we have to be sure that we are working hard enough and playing well enough to even deserve it." Well children, after that comment there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth. The nerve of someone even intimating that an organist wasn't deserving! Said luminary was not invited to speak on such topics again. The truth shall set you free, peeps. If we are not going to be honest about our abilities and our work, there really is no hope for the profession. There will always be many levels of playing in the organ world - this is true of every instrument. But we have to agree to some sort of minimum standard for playing in public as professionals. And I don't mean Carnegie Hall levels - I'm talking about playing with accuracy, musicality, and sensitivity to the text at a BARE minimum. We all have to be willing to go get coached or take lessons or whatever is needed when we come across some sort of issue we cannot overcome. And as employers, churches should be more than willing to chip in towards this type of continuing education. If they aren't, then they are getting what they pay for. The church also needs to start being honest about what it wants. Different strokes for different folks, as the saying goes. If a congregation has decided that they want nothing but contemporary Christian music, then stop looking for musicians from The Peabody Conservatory of Music. If it is your intention to maintain a high quality music program that has been established since the 19th century with professional musicians and a world-class instrument, don't hire Susie Q. from down the street who has only taken 6 organ lessons. The common denominator is this: whatever you want, hire qualified people and treat them like professionals, not jukeboxes. Need help discerning what's lacking or what's needed? Consult with your musician as a fellow colleague and professional and rely on their experience. If you don't have one, try your local AGO or college/university organ professor. You'd be surprised at the resources that may be available to you. And the same goes for musicians. If you believe at the center of your being that the music in a worship service should be of the highest standard and quality possible, don't work for a church or clergy person who admittedly thinks music is not important. Or work to find some common ground you can both agree upon. If you can't stand traditional church music, don't disrespect the liturgy and all those celebrating it by slopping your way through hymns every week. Treat the instrument and the music with the respect they deserve as a tools and vehicles for worship. We are obligated to be at our best whenever we sit at the bench. Otherwise, we can kiss our profession goodbye, and it will be no one's fault but our own.
