Little Feathers: A Bright Little Feather

Little Feathers: A Bright Little Feather: "Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the song without the words And never stops-at all-" I lov...

A Bright Little Feather

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the song without the words
And never stops-at all-"

I love this poem by Emily Dickinson. I remember my mom reading it to me when I was just a little girl. The image of a bird singing "a million songs without any words", as Patti Griffin says, is one that I can see in my mind's eye. The face on the notion of hope. Most birdsong is heard without ever seeing the singer. But when the singer perches in my soul and sings those songs without any words, I feel the solace coming straight from the creator.

There are so many things to worry about. Not just the ones "out there" in the big world, but worries for people I love. For friends and family facing illness and grief. For people whose jobs or children or spouse or parents are in trouble. For friends of friends whose losses or sudden challenges send me to my knees. But then the thing happens. Not immediately, because I can worry with the best of them. But then the gift is given. The songs.

Sometimes hope drifts into my awareness like that little feather in Forrest Gump. Just softly rising into the sky, swirling and lifting. Sometimes it's the birds that begin to sing just before the sun comes over the mountain when I'm here at the cabin. The forest behind us is filled with the little gift givers, and they are the sweetest alarm clock. A new day starts with their song.

Last night, hope came from another gift. When I lay awake worrying about everything and everyone, Bob reminded me that there was something else to focus on. All that we have to be grateful for. The beautiful people we were given to love. And that song, that one without any words, the one that perched in my soul and called itself hope, that song lulled me to sleep.

The bright little feather is the one that makes the dawn look beautiful. The one that makes the day seem possible. Emily's hope sang without any feathers. But mine is lined with the downy beauty of the creature who gets to fly, who sings so beautifully from a throat created for music. Hope. 

Thank You, Leonard!

Last night I saw Bernstein's Mass. Peter Bay and friends pulled out all the stops to mount this massive (pun intended) production. I was amazed and awed that Austin would have gotten behind this deep look at faith and hope. Because Austin seems more comfortable with being cool than being introspective. At least, that's my impression.

As the scenes devolved into chaos and anarchy, even the altar wasn't reserved for the sacred. Leonard was pushing our boundaries. Pushing, pushing, pushing to make us say how much is enough. What is of man, and what is of God? How much grief can a human take and still turn to hope, turn to God, turn to truth, turn to good? One thing I liked is that Bernstein stripped away all the props of religion, yelled at and cried out to God, and in the end was left with only the silence, and the small voice of hope singing a new song. A Psalm. Really quiet music from the throat of God.

What struck me again last night is that these times we live in forty some years later are part of the same picture, part of the same journey that America has been on since Kennedy was shot. And way before that. Like to the time of Cain and Able. We had a few years in there that made us think (some of us, because for some this is never the case) that we had come out of the social schisms and tears in the fabric of our society's identity, and that we had healed as a nation. But this grief we experience today at the hatred of one for another isn't new. Our clothes are different, but that's about it.

I know this is a theme I keep coming back to. And I'm not saying, "It's okay, it's been this bad before so we don't need to worry." I'm saying, we are still on this hard road of grief, and we still have choices to make about who we will be in the end. Thanks for the reminder, Leonard.

Little Feathers: An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times

Little Feathers: An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times: We live in unpopular times. How often have we heard the word "unprecedented" in regard to some news item? And it's never good....

An Unpopular Word in Unpopular Times

We live in unpopular times. How often have we heard the word "unprecedented" in regard to some news item? And it's never good. Never unprecedentedly good. The momentum of the bad news/terrible state of humanity is like a freight train. So I was really surprised this morning to hear words of hope echo into that chamber of horrors. And I'm going to try hard to articulate what my brain did with those words of hope.

The unpopular word is one that has been used to abuse people for centuries. To pound them, to beat them, to bloody their poor heads and hearts. Ironically, it has been wielded as a weapon by the very people who should know best that it is a word of hope. I can't put it off any longer, I have to write the word. Sin. I know, you hate that word (if you are in my generation or younger, for sure). It made me blanch when I heard it this morning. Because it's been used by people who are later arrested for doing it. By Christians!! Holy mackerel. Not just priests and pastors and teachers in the church, but by the entire priesthood of believers. By me.

How can it be hopeful to talk about sin? To think about sin? It has almost become a four letter word. But here's the kicker...it is the bottom line of all hope. I'm not talking about worrying about sin and everlasting hell (there are so many people living in hell in this world right now that the whole Dante version is meaningless to me). I'm not talking about demanding that people accept a certain religion, or call God by a certain name to get the benefit of the hope. 

Sin is hardening my heart against another human being. Because one way God still creates, still works in this world, is through us. God never left. God didn't die and rise again and go to heaven and leave us alone. God is here. God is living in that one that we can't stand. The one who believes some crazy religion, or no religion, or belongs to the "other" political party. You know the one, the person who clearly isn't as smart/compassionate/hard working as we are. God is living in that reporter on the other channel that I just can't stand. In the politician I detest. God is living in that person who keeps begging on the corner when I suspect they are just mooching. God is even living in that driver who clearly doesn't know how to drive and will slow our journey by minutes at least. God is living in the addict who has lost themselves in drugs/alcohol/sex/gambling/work/food, or just plain self-centered-ness. Which is, more often than not, you and me.

Wait, I'm coming to the hopeful part. If sin is the hardening of our hearts against God in others, then we have the power to change that. We can even pray for help to change it. Because, honestly, can you imagine that God would rather we be haters? Can you think for one second that God would not jump at the chance to help us be better humans?

Hate somebody? Stop it. Resent somebody? Let it go. Demand that someone think the same in order to be loved? Get over it! Choose to love the God in them even if I can't bring myself to like them. I predict it will cause an unprecedented improvement in human history. If I think it doesn't matter how I talk about people, I'm part of the downward spiral of moral courage. If I think it doesn't matter if I spread gossip, if I can't wait to defame someone, I'm part of the illness that is blocking the sun. Anger breeds contempt. Contempt is a blight. Oh I know, everyone thinks they have righteous anger. Know any truly righteous people?

Unpopular times- they are upon us. But people who commit to love justice and do mercy will shine the light that is so lacking. Sin, it's the old, old story. The Old Adam sitting around in his underwear waiting for others to bring him a beer. BUT it's not the final answer. Thank God, the chance to choose truth is as available to us as ever. And that is just plain hopeful.

Little Feathers: True North

Little Feathers: True North: Apologies to real navigators. Disclaimer- novice in action. In high school, decades ago, I learned that a compass doesn't really po...

True North

Apologies to real navigators. Disclaimer- novice in action.

In high school, decades ago, I learned that a compass doesn't really point to the North Pole. It points to magnetic north, a variable magnetic field that is not fixed in relation to the earth's axis. You have to make adjustments in order to travel North. And don't even think about Astronomical True North, or grid north. Those tidbits of information have wiggled around in my brain all these years. Kind of like when you discover that no one is really in charge.

There are lots of distractions from the truth, and that is my analogy. There are lot of distractions from keeping true to my authentic self. Sorry if that phrase has become hackneyed. It works really well to describe my goal, so I'm risking some rolling of the eyes when I use it.

I used to be so sure of things. I didn't question anything, or any authority. My compass was pointed North, and that's all that mattered. That may be the way with most young people, especially those who have been given a sheltered and easy childhood. Or, it may be peculiar to me. Regardless, that surety was blown away, for me, on 9/11. I was young and immature during the Vietnam protests, or it would have happened then, I imagine.

My childhood was filled with heroes. Roy Rogers in his white hat. John Wayne. Zorro. Then there were the real ones: Rosa Parks, Amelia Erhart, MLK, John Glenn. And John Glenn again. Heroes were good people traveling due North. Toward truth and justice.

Then the black and white picture faded to shades of gray. Good people made huge mistakes. Including me. And nothing was quite as simple anymore.

If I'm honest, which authenticity demands, I can't glide along with the crowd, taking up trends here and there that fit the moment but not the journey. But I do. That pesky magnetic field has a strong pull, and sometimes I find myself spending long periods of time following some mixed bag or another. Uh-oh, more mixed metaphors.

Most people I know want to belong. They want to be in the know, savvy, etc. Because we get laughed at when we show our naivete or inexperience. But striving to live in a way that shows I'm cool is a diversion from my path. Plus, I'm not able to pull it off. My true self manages to peek through. So what I really, really want is to not listen to that siren call of the faux north. To listen only to the instincts that tell me who I really am. It's a goal. Like traveling True North.

Little Feathers: When the Student Is Ready...

Little Feathers: When the Student Is Ready...: I hope I can capture in words this Easter gift I was given today. Actually, the gift has been revealing itself for a few weeks now. But toda...

When the Student Is Ready...

I hope I can capture in words this Easter gift I was given today. Actually, the gift has been revealing itself for a few weeks now. But today a shift in perspective, a changing of the angle, as my great friend Mary says, let a precious insight sparkle like the very best light for my spirit.

Appalled by injustice and oppression done in the name of Christ, I have had a lot of trouble embracing the church for a few years now. I have wanted to apologize for, more than celebrate,the church on earth. This has caused the field of my faith to lie fallow, or sometimes downright dying. It has caused me to repeat, ad nauseum, all the things I can't believe about God. Some of the most troubling things are in the creeds and prayers of the church, and I have felt at turns blasphemous and rebellious when faced with dogma I feel was created to keep some in power and others under the thumb. Some in the club and some left begging at the gate. Many mixed metaphors, I know.  I know you will understand just what I mean when I say I have wept that crosses -meant as the reminder of the ultimate sacrifice of a creator who would go to the very gates of hell to call "home free" to every creature ever made, those same crosses would be used to strike fear into the hearts of those who found them burning on their lawn. That's the best example I can think of to tell you the trouble in my heart. We won't even go into the Crusades, the Inquisition, the treatment of minorities of every kind, the blind eye to predator priests, using scripture as a battering ram or weapon of exclusion, etc etc etc.

A few weeks ago we started going to a nearby church. It could be any church, most likely, but this particular one was chosen for me. Because the Holy Spirit keeps giving words to the minister there, words that feel like living water poured on that fallow field. Little phrases that catch my imagination, the most important part of my brain, to me. Not new information, just little drops of water at just the right time.

Today the crowning moment came for me when the minister was preaching, and talking about the women who fled in fear from the empty tomb. As he talked about them running back the way they had come, fearful and confused, I saw my own self with them. Because I don't get it. I don't get so much of it. And the contradictions have dealt me a blow that I has left me reeling, for a while now.

But as the sermon went on, God had something private to say to me. The gospel reading today was not about the ones who later came and saw Jesus sitting in the tomb. But my mind went there anyway, led by a God who loves me. And instead of the words from the Bible, when Jesus saw me looking into the tomb, he said, just to me, "See, I have already been every place your fear can go. I have been in that place already. And you will not go there alone. No fear is beyond me."

I still have a lot of trouble with aspects of the church. But those are really people problems, not God problems. I have been left this day with a peace, a heart for understanding that God is so much bigger than the tiny parameters the church has given God. I know this is nothing new. But the peace is new for me today. And I am grateful.

Little Feathers: Just The One Time

Little Feathers: Just The One Time: How did we get here? How did we get to this place of distrust, disrespect and lawlessness? One decision at a time. The one time we decid...

Just The One Time

How did we get here? How did we get to this place of distrust, disrespect and lawlessness?

One decision at a time.

The one time we decided not to let our child face the consequences of a bad decision. Because we wanted to protect them from disappointment or failed dreams. But we knew deep down, even then, that the only failed dreams are ones that don't belong to us anymore because we've sold out.

The one time we decided not to alert the retail clerk to an error in our favor. A little chink in our armor of self respect. But a chink non-the-less.

The one time we decide to jump on the bandwagon of dragging someone down. Anyone. Anywhere. Because mobs are always cool, until they're not.

The one time we get behind the wheel when we know we are impaired. There's just a little ways to go, and a cab would be inconvenient. There can be no finger pointing ever to someone else's bad judgement once we've made that rationalization. The difference between us and them? We arrived safely without killing anyone and they did not.

The one time we let a friend badmouth our spouse without letting them know that is stunningly bad taste. It doesn't have to end the friendship, but we do have to let them know that disrespecting our spouse is not okay. If we can't say it because we fear their reaction, we have made our choice.

The one time we continually watched (oxymoron, I think) a show where the people prove dominance of ideas or popularity by out-screaming each other. The cheapening of dialog starts with not letting someone finish their sentence. (I wish I had a nickle for ever time I've interrupted someone. Then I could send that money to a good cause and resolve, once again, not to do that anymore.) If we don't watch those shows, the money lenders, who are the enablers, will get the message.

The one time we called an elected official a derogatory name. Privately hating them is one thing, and I think we need to do a blood check on the level of hate in our 'stream, but demeaning them because they have a different point of view is another. We can say this is trickle down, starts at the top, etc. But we are not in charge of anyone but ourselves. Are we going to mimic behavior we hate in others?

The one time we fail to stand up for what we know is right, working for change, because we fear what the popular kids think. High school left a mark! Let's erase it. Who cares what someone else does or thinks if we know we need to be/act/talk/argue/ for something? This is opposite, in my opinion, of tearing someone down. It is building up what we know is good and right.

The one time we invented excuses for ourselves because the truth was too embarrassing. Lots of stuff is no one else's business, period. But we don't have to lie. Really. I don't know anyone who hasn't done this. Which is kinda my point.

The one time we let fear stop us. Fear of failure, fear of judgement, fear of losing our stuff. What we need to fear the most is the sellout.

I'm sad that we have come to accept mocking someone for their faith/size/intellect/talent. It's beneath us a nation. As a society. As an individual. I don't want to do it anymore. And since I'm the only one that I'm actually in charge of, I'm wanting to set a goal for myself to do the things I know are right. Just the one time. And the next. But let's start with just the one.

Little Feathers: Turns From The Corner, Lullabies, A Pen, A Paint...

Little Feathers: Turns From The Corner, Lullabies, A Pen, A Paint...: Balance', balance', pique (single), pique (double), prepare and triple (honor demands you try again if you fall out of the first tri...

Turns From The Corner, Lullabies, A Pen, A Paintbrush

Balance', balance', pique (single), pique (double), prepare and triple (honor demands you try again if you fall out of the first triple pirouette, but if you do not pull up sufficiently the second time, you will double the next go round), glissade assemble' derriere (if you eat up enough floor with this, you can add a whole combo to your turn), inside pirouette (single), soutenu. Repeat as many times as you can fit in your diagonal run.

When I think of my teenage self in Miss Van Valey's studio, this is truly my favorite "turns from the corner" sequence. It must have resonated in my bones to be with me 50-some years later. I can hear Mrs. Erhardt playing the modest upright piano in the corner, Miss Van Valey calling out corrections, which were adamant and loud when we missed a position. Never was it an option to finish a pirouette in a questionable position other than the assigned one. I still long for the feeling of exact balance, the string from the crown of my head, a taught helper lifting, lifting, lifting me out the standing hip that can fool one into sinking into the floor, away from the sky that we aspired to inhabit.

I loved to dance. It snuck into my dreams, snuck into my identity. It studied ballet only until I went to college. Then I learned that the sky I had longed to inhabit en pointe was open to new, creative, limitless ways to dance.

One day, I traded my dancing for mothering. Another love. Another way to see beyond myself. A gift.  Though there were hard days, tired days, confused days, heartbreaking days, I was a mother to my bones. Maybe my favorite part was singing lullabies, reading to them, praying with them at bedtime.

Another day, in a bid to let the kids grow up to be their own people, I took up a pen. Or, more accurately, a keyboard. I wrote stories. I wrote devotions, and books, and poems and songs and emails and facebook posts and and and and. I was a writer. In my soul. Words made pictures, made conclusions, made unanswerable questions, made me stop stop stop and think.

Last summer, a day came along that put a paintbrush in my hand. At 63, I suddenly saw color and composition as an opportunity to seek that same sky, that rarefied air that called to me as a teen age ballerina. Now I'm painting everything that catches my fancy. I am a baby in the school of art, a novice of the first degree in all things art. But that is not a stumbling block for me, because I have the absolute luxury of learning something new.

I was so blessed that my parents worked hard to give me dance lessons. I was incredibly blessed to mother three of my favorite people. I was blessed to have the time, and support of my husband, and the means to learn to write. And I feel the same now with painting. And I am grateful.

Turns from the corner will inhabit the long-hallowed halls of my memory. Mothering lives on in my heart, long after the children are grown. Writing still calls to me, giving me voice. And painting is an exciting journey into new territory. Hello sky. I see you up there. Waiting.