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Gabriel’s Horn

The trumpet notes drift to her in sleep, a melody she’s never heard, stupefying in its beauty, a solo played just for her. She pictures the lone trumpeter in the street leaning against a lamp post, an Edward Hopper figure half in shadow fingering the valves, blowing soaring notes. Is it a love song? A keening? Exultation to something higher? More mesmerizing and seductive than she imagines the song of the sirens, like Odysseus she wants to follow it, but is rendered motionless, tied to the mast of her bed.

When unwanted silence returns, she rouses herself and hurries to the window sure to catch the thin time trumpeter, but there are only parked cars in the street, a family of raccoons tripping her neighbor’s outdoor sensor, a streetlight at the corner lighting a stray cat on the prowl. She returns to bed to catch a few more restful hours before dawn.

The flap of wings is like the loud snap of a sheet on a crisp sunny morn, a whoosh of air, wings beating so close she ducks and cowers from what she cannot see, trying in vain to control the rapid flailing of her caged heart. Fearful of disturbing the source about her head, she lies down, submissive. It hovers and finally rests above her crown where it abolishes fear, holds her weary spirit, healing it for another go, imparting peace and impossible joy before it is gone quick as it came, before she has a chance to ask her questions, to say her thanks. A dream within a dream.

Only a glass of wine with dinner, she’s sure. Her head says dream. Her heart knows better. Who can she tell? What would she say in the telling? She did not awake from the nighttime visitations with any message to share, only indescribable majesty, succor in the nick of time, divinity delivered in a way she can digest, endlessly nourishing. A longing quenched, a new one in its place.

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Reminders

You forgot to spritz yourself with your good-natured Kumbaya spray before you left home yesterday, and you were a bit short with someone you care about and respect. You are fretting about this and several other things, the same things day in and day out, only the particulars altering. Other people you know are carrying so much, too much. You worry for them. Why aren’t you carrying more? We’re all a loose stitch away from coming apart at the seams.

You head to work, late as usual, rounding the corner you see the school bus arriving. Slowing, you see a mom and her young son waiting on their porch holding hands, he shining the widest smile you ever saw, hopping from leg to leg, giddy to get on the bus and start his day. Mom hugs her boy. You have just become today’s lucky recipient of a drive-by jolt of joy. Let it wash through you, let it be a touchstone.

A friend and you are emailing each other about this, that, the other and whatnot. She sends you a one-liner that makes you laugh out loud. Suddenly you are right there with her. You see her ready smile, hear her voice, the way she goes from earnestness to levity and back again in flow. Her name is Gift.

On a windy night standing beneath the skylight in your place, the one that you often take for granted, you are awed by the incredible display of blowing branches on a magnificent tree, a priceless, original work of art, irreplicable. Whisper, I will try to be worthy.

Swimming. Kick, kick, kick, breath to the left, kick, kick, kick, breath again to the left. Wrong. Lessons would make you more efficient… is it too late? Awkward technique aside, shapeshifting feels good in the cleansing water, the lengths, the laps, the rhythm, the exertion, the community of others in the pool, the solace of your lane. Off to the deep end, goggles flipped up, body leaning back to rest, floating, cradled by Grace. Baptism and renewal each time.

The thread does break, the stuffing will spill out, the mending of the seam may take time, if it’s ever done at all. The reminders always come to shift the focus, if only for a moment. It’s all precious.

***

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Easter Monday Surrender

Sitting at home on Easter Monday listening to the morning snow melting in rhythmic drum taps on the bathroom skylight, I look out at the tree branches gallantly holding another thick blanket, regal and elegant in spite of the weight. Steamed heat in the old radiators blends hisses and bangs with the dripping beat in an unexpected improv percussion jam. A train whistles a trumpet glide announcing a journey, joining in the riff of the moment.

My mind wanders to an earlier conversation with a young person in my life seeking her path, feeling stuck, a bit confused. I wish I had wisdom, but I can only offer love, the promise of a book in the mail that maybe will help, some gentle questions and suggestions, the faith that I am here. I am always here.

I think, too, of a flaming email that arrived on Easter causing sadness over the state of a relationship, a person and his pain, the knowledge that age is not necessarily a shield from our very human emotions. I wish I could erase the pain, that I could clear the bramble and thorns that are choking new growth, that I could bring the thaw. But with every step of our path lately, I see more cloudiness and perhaps a permanent fork in the road. Retreat seems the only way to peace.

I’m invited upstairs for espresso with warm milk and a delicious homemade cookie I don’t need, Easter abundance still straining the waistband of my slacks. Easy conversation roams from our latest dreams and goals to the behavior of our cats. When I get back downstairs the jam session has faded, the cats are curled into C-shapes, content, peaceful.

The snow has slowed its steady fall and through the covered trees I can make out the river beneath the cliff, catching and carrying the melting snow. Sometimes the weather changes with little or no warning. There is grace in gravity, in standing still, relief in letting go, melting like the snow and entering the flow, surrendering what I cannot control.

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Welcome to My Worlds

This is an old post resurrected in honor of Stephen Hawking who I am sure is still out there soaring somewhere.

In 2016 when PBS aired Stephen Hawking’s Genius series, I caught an episode that featured parallel universes and the scientific community’s increasing belief in them. Falling into a black hole, one might find a way out through a portal to another universe. What that means practically speaking, I am not sure, but my mind keeps turning over the wondrous possibility. In a world where violence continues to reach depressing new peaks of disbelief, where our leaders cannot seem to do the right thing, the idea of other worlds where we our are better selves holds appeal.

It may seem impossible to consider living other lives simultaneously in multiple universes, particularly when you think of how complex your life already is. On any given day, you bring several versions of your life to the table. While sitting in a meeting, you might also be thinking about your bills or retirement.  How will you pay for your kids’ college education?  You may be worried about your health or the health and welfare of someone close to you. Maybe you feel you are falling short of your life goals. Will this meeting never end?

At lunch with a friend, you might be half-listening while planning a celebration in your head or pondering your next week off. Will you go out of town or stay local?  What’s for dinner tonight? Do you need to stop at the store on the way home? What did she just say? Is your spouse happy? Really? With an effort, you pull yourself back to the present until your mind wanders off again to one of your other worlds.

It’s nearly incomprehensible to think we might be holding just as much in parallel universes! And yet, you have to admit, if it’s true, there’s something magnificent, beautiful and divine in that design—a kaleidoscope of lives within a kaleidoscope of lives—different depths, shapes and colors. Do our actions here have a ripple effect that is even greater than we realize?

As scientists and physicists discover and explain more, the circles between what we know and what we imagine continue to overlap and grow, expanding the subset of the two. You can almost hear the echo of your heartbeat in the middle of it.

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Red Herrings

A good mystery keeps you guessing up until the end, or at the very least, leaves you satisfied when you figure out who done it before it’s revealed. It does this by throwing out red herrings, clues that are intended to be misleading or distracting. Typically, several prime suspects are involved. Seemingly innocent people connected to the crime or murder by association with the victim become prime suspects by having no alibi or witness and by unexpected behaviors–the local priest having an affair, the quiet elder shopkeeper who has a dark, secret past. That doesn’t necessarily make them guilty, but it does make them intriguing and persons of interest. Shadow sides are brought to the fore in mysteries.

We all have them. Regardless of the level of self-awareness with which we’ve lived or tried to live our lives, we can still be caught off-guard by our shadows. A trigger, a mood or too much stress–all can cause us to behave in ways that surprise or disappoint us. In fact, we can become like red herrings, confusing not only people around us but also ourselves!

What ensues when the shadow is triggered is not always a pleasant play of shadow and light. Depending on the situation and the depth of emotion attached to it, it can take days to put the shadow to rest. For most of us, this is a delicate dance, whether we’re wrestling with our own shadow or have been caught in the crossfire of someone else’s or both. Examining the darker side can be like solving a mystery.

If we lived in a world that was made up only of light or of darkness, we would never see one another, much less our own reflections. Complete light is blinding, as is total darkness. Forgiveness is of necessity wrapped up in examining our shadows, as is tenderness. Love, especially of self, is what allows us to stay with the mystery, to let go of the red herrings and focus on the light in the mirror.

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New Pajamas?

When I was about five-years-old my mom made me a pair of pajamas with a waistband that was too big. I strutted around the kitchen table at breakfast modeling them for my father and brothers until they fell down around my ankles. In that moment I learned the high of making people I love laugh. Naturally, I had to repeat it, pulling my pajamas up and letting them fall down, until I wore out the effect, and my mother made me stop. But it was done. I was a certifiable goofball and proud of it.

Humor is an elixir with the power to break tension and soothe what ails, if only temporarily enough to keep us buoyed and balanced, especially in these hard times. And hard times they are. Heightened environmental and socio-political ills coupled with whatever we may be carrying personally provide a seedbed for anxiety, pain and stress making us more susceptible to illness.

Laughter releases endorphins, the opposite of anger, fear and panic, which release adrenaline. It boosts our immune systems, protects our hearts, and burns calories, among many other things. It’s also a great leveler and can be the magic gateway to ending a stalemate when other means fail. Laughter is a master matchmaker, fostering likely and unlikely alliances.  Click here for more benefits of laughing.

You might think you can’t manufacture laughter but not so. In 1995, Dr. Madan Katari founded laughter yoga theorizing that the body doesn’t know the difference between fake and real laughter and it experiences benefits either way. Journalist, professor and peace advocate Norman Cousins famously treated his illnesses with laughter, vitamins and diet.

So, seek it wherever you can find it–through friends and family, funny movies and books, comedy clubs and shows, whatever works. There is nothing to lose in trying to be a little lighter, because there simply can’t be too much light right now. Me? I may have to buy some new pajamas and invite some friends over for breakfast.

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The Wonder and Work of Christmas

Somewhere around Thanksgiving I start to feel uneasy about Christmas and my increasing lack of connectedness to it. The relentless bombardment of advertising for endless sales feels like psychological warfare, an assault reinforced by the inescapable ambient noise of tinny carols. I worry about people who do not have much, the financial pressure they live with all year mounting to a crescendo at Christmastime. My heart is always with addicts and people suffering from mental illness and those who love them. Christmas does not necessarily bring a break in abusive situations. Holidays can be stressful for so many.

Yet somehow, some way, the wily wonder of Christmas will woo me.

This year I am awed as I follow the Facebook page of a friend of a friend, parents who have a two-year-old battling cancer. Their courage, faith and strength make me marvel anew at the boundless capacity of love.

My colleague routinely updates us on a refugee Afghani family he and his congregation are journeying with: finding them an apartment, taking them to medical exams, lining up ESOL classes and helping to find employment, welcoming the stranger.

On a favorite annual trip with friends to Old Ebbitt Grill in Washington, DC, we are delayed for a moment by a homeless man selling copies of his book, Homeless Lives Matter. Indeed, they do. After a delightful hour or so inside, as we prepare to leave, one of my friends witnesses the bartender refusing another homeless man’s money, handing him a beer on the house, restoring my faith in the generous, compassionate heart. Everyone deserves dignity.

I love decorated trees, the smell of holly and greens. I am enchanted by the lights that deck the streets, the halls and just about everything in sight. I relish traditions with friends and family. And I confess I cannot make it through a verse of Silent Night without crying. It’s not Christmas I am not connected to–it’s the commercialization of it. But I should know better by now; wonder cannot be short-circuited or smothered.

My favorite Christmas poem is Howard Thurman’s The Work of Christmas. May we all know the wonder and light of this season and remember the work of it always.

The Work of Christmas
by Howard Thurman

When the song of the angels is stilled,

When the star in the sky is gone,

When the kings and the princes are home,

When the shepherds are back with their flock,

The work of Christmas begins:

To find the lost,

To heal the broken,

To feed the hungry,

To release the prisoner,

To rebuild the nations,

To bring peace among brothers,

To make music in the heart. 

 

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Grateful for Grace

On the eve of Thanksgiving here in the States, naturally I am thinking of gratitude. That said, gratitude is not just for Thanksgiving. Many people have a daily gratitude practice, either journaling what they are grateful for or taking time to reflect on gratitude. This practice is said to have numerous profound benefits, including making us happier, healthier, more spiritual and better sleepers. For a complete list, visit the Happier Human website.

That’s good news, but a few other things caught my attention on the subject recently, including a suggestion from an online astrologer–yes, an astrologer–“to give thanks for what once may have seemed to be a liability or problem.” Now that’s something to think about.

Elizabeth Briel, in A Book of Grace-Filled Days (2013), for November 23, writes:

I will give thanks to you, O Lord, with all my heart – Psalm 9:2
Note how often the whole heart is referenced in Scripture. This implies that nothing is held back, that no part is hidden or kept to oneself. Are there parts of me I am trying to hide and control? Are there aspects of my life for which I resist God’s healing touch?

Could it be that the parts of ourselves that we most ignore or try to hide or control are the parts that most deserve our attention, gratitude and perhaps our forgiveness? That requires an openness, an invitation to grace. Grace is a mysterious gift, never unwelcome, often bestowed when we least expect it. It is not the nature of grace to always be direct or obvious; sometimes it is the opposite of what we think we know or what we expect or desire.

I am thankful for much, including and especially medical professionals and caregivers, and for the grace-filled people in every single service industry. But I am also grateful for the grace that has come my way in unexpected packages, for sorrows that I hope make space for deeper compassion and for a light that somehow refuses to be snuffed regardless of the weight of our world.

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The Sound of Silence

Growing up in the Midwest, I learned at a young age that eerie outdoor silence is nature’s harbinger of severe weather–calm before the storm. The wind might kick up a little, but the birds and animals are keeping quiet vigil in their safe houses. Recent events have me asking myself, why didn’t I hear the silence before the storms?

Silence, it could be said, has a multiple personality disorder. Silence can be a warning, yes, but it can also be an emotional weapon—the silent treatment—a passive aggressive punishment. And silence can be a sign of depression, ennui or a certain kind of impotence—an inability or unwillingness to take action. Silence exerts power, significance and solemnity when she walks or sits in silent protest.

I’m a big fan of the good silences. I know that when I practice meditation it makes me calmer and clearer. There is peace in silence when you can find a sliver. I also believe an intentional moment of silence alone or with a group holding vigil is holy, and a way of radiating peaceful, positive energy to salve the crackling rage and violence that is smoldering just below the surface all around us ready to conflagrate anywhere at any time like it did in Las Vegas.

It has become a tradition for US lawmakers to hold just that kind of moment of silence after a major tragedy. Some of the Democratic lawmakers refused to partake in the ritual after the mass murder in Nevada stating it was not enough anymore. Several social justice groups and individuals also made that declaration. What we need is action, not silence, on gun control and not just on bump stocks and other similar devices, though that’s being touted as the first step toward “real” gun control legislation.  How long will that take? And how many more silenced lives?

Gun control is a particularly divisive issue in the US; the UK took further legislative action in 1997 after the Dunblane massacre of the previous year.  Here we have massacre after massacre and still cannot kick our addiction to guns and violence.

We need the silence of contemplation and the rational, just action that arises from it en masse.  Because more storms are coming, and we have run out of safe houses.

Some sites to check out if you wish to become more involved:

The Coalition to Stop Gun Violence

Women Against Gun Violence

The Law Center to Prevent Gun Violence

Every Town for Gun Safety

 

 

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I See You

Many of John Kingham’s words give me pause. We live in vastly different worlds, he and I; John is an inmate locked up in Florida, while I am living freely in New Jersey, too often taking for granted the privileges that come with my freedom.

I was first introduced to John when he wrote to Sister Sheila about Living Peace, among other things. He is a subscriber to Living Peace through Sisters Janet and Rosalie, mentors and companions to him. I shared that first letter to Sister Sheila with the Living Peace editorial board, and we decided to invite John to write an article about his experience of starting a Zen sangha in prison.

When I sent him the proof copy of his article, he wrote back to tell me how excited he was to see his words in print. He was grateful for the opportunity to be heard, mentioning in a matter-of-fact, not complaining way, that life in prison reduced one to a dehumanizing anonymity where the inmate is not heard, seen or noted. “One of the more potent insults is I don’t see you.”

I received that letter just a few days after the eclipse. Someone I was watching with commented on how that event was so uplifting and unifying here in the States. Indeed, while nature is screaming her pain through hurricanes, earthquakes, floods, droughts and wildfires, her beauty and rhythms go on (so far) in spite of our abuse. Apart from being a spectacular natural event, the eclipse was a reminder that the most important things–the sun, the moon, the stars, our essence, our center, our strength–cannot be taken from us.

I doubt John or his fellow inmates were out in the yard viewing the eclipse with a pair of special glasses.  But  it took a lot of dark hours locked away for him to shed light on his spirit and then learn how to stay centered in unforgiving circumstances.

It’s easy to forget about the populations we cannot see, convenient to judge or dismiss them. There is no requirement that we believe in the ability to transform, but so much that is worthwhile and gratifying is born of an effort to change or to help others do so. A heart permanently eclipsed by an inability to see might just be a heart in need of some special glasses.

You can read John’s article, “A Field of Future Buddhas Waiting to Bloom” in the latest issue of Living Peace.