Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Little Feathers: Christmas In A Minor Key
Little Feathers: Christmas In A Minor Key: There is a reason that we love to skip straight to the angel chorus astounding the shepherds with glad tidings. The hard part of Christmas c...
Christmas In A Minor Key
There is a reason that we love to skip straight to the angel chorus astounding the shepherds with glad tidings. The hard part of Christmas can be too painful to dwell on for long. But anyone who has faced the holiday after losing a loved one knows that ho-ho-ho can sound hollow, or worse. For me, only the whole story will do. Only the part where God looked into the hearts of people and knew we needed a story born of our own sorrow, our own worry, our own limited understanding. That's why my favorite Christmas carols are the ones set in a minor key (I'll use that term for simplicity, so if you are music person please don't be offended when I describe a plainsong that way). The music that voices the yearning for solace speaks to me at Christmas time, more than any other.
My favorite was written in the 5th century. Before Pope Gregory gathered songs and called them Gregorian Chants. It's called Of the Father's Love Begotten. Just writing the title calls the haunting melody into my heart. It is unlike modern Christmas Carols that use harmony modes. It was originally sung in unison, and was unaccompanied. Just humans singing in a world where music is sometimes the greatest comfort. It has lasted so long, handed down through centuries, because it is beautiful, and because it is hopeful. Because people who loved it before I was born needed assurance that we don't exist in a vacuum, that there is a reason we are here.
There is much about the Christmas story that we hurry past, not taking a long hard look. I do it because I can't bear to think of the tragedy of the parents whose baby sons were murdered at Herod's command. All male children under two years of age were slaughtered. I want to cry with them and rage at God who let that happen. It's no different from the tragedy in our world. How can a God of mercy allow children to starve to death? To drown trying to flee from murderers in their own country? What does it mean that God should intervene to send Jesus, but not to save the suffering children? I don't know. I won't know in this lifetime. When I feel the crush of sadness about it, about the loss every person will endure, I don't want to hear the glorious strains. I want to hear the cry of God's own heart. Because I can't pretend that all is well and lovely.
What Child Is This is set to the beautiful melody Greensleeves. The minor key draws me to the beautiful lyrics. Because even in the triumphant last two lines of each verse, the victory stands in the middle of the pain, not in denial. And I believe that is where Christmas is the most valuable, the most important. Not in pretending that everything is fine. But that even in the darkest time of the year, even when we are mired in the darkest times of our lives, we are not alone in that darkness. God does not rise above that and ignore our sorrow. Instead, the story of a baby born in the squalor of a stable, born to common people rather than royalty, born into the bondage of the rule of Rome, that story is what gives me hope. If you get a chance, look up the tune to this ancient plainsong. You can be a purist and not listen to goopy SATB versions, or you can just enjoy a good recording. Think of the voices who have sung it through the centuries. Evermore and evermore.
1. Of the Father's love begotten
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the Source, the Ending He,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see
Evermore and evermore.
2. Oh, that birth forever blessed
When the Virgin, full of grace,
By the Holy Ghost conceiving,
Bare the Savior of our race,
And the Babe, the world's Redeemer,
First revealed His sacred face
Evermore and evermore.
3. O ye heights of heaven, adore Him;
Angel hosts, His praises sing;
Powers, dominions, bow before Him
And extol our God and King.
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Every voice in concert ring
Evermore and evermore.
4. This is He whom Heaven-taught singers
Sang of old with one accord;
Whom the Scriptures of the prophets
Promised in their faithful word.
Now He shines, the Long-expected;
Let creation praise its Lord
Evermore and evermore.
5. Christ, to Thee, with God the Father,
And, O Holy Ghost, to Thee
Hymn and chant and high thanksgiving
And unending praises be,
Honor, glory, and dominion,
And eternal victory
Evermore and evermore.
My favorite was written in the 5th century. Before Pope Gregory gathered songs and called them Gregorian Chants. It's called Of the Father's Love Begotten. Just writing the title calls the haunting melody into my heart. It is unlike modern Christmas Carols that use harmony modes. It was originally sung in unison, and was unaccompanied. Just humans singing in a world where music is sometimes the greatest comfort. It has lasted so long, handed down through centuries, because it is beautiful, and because it is hopeful. Because people who loved it before I was born needed assurance that we don't exist in a vacuum, that there is a reason we are here.
There is much about the Christmas story that we hurry past, not taking a long hard look. I do it because I can't bear to think of the tragedy of the parents whose baby sons were murdered at Herod's command. All male children under two years of age were slaughtered. I want to cry with them and rage at God who let that happen. It's no different from the tragedy in our world. How can a God of mercy allow children to starve to death? To drown trying to flee from murderers in their own country? What does it mean that God should intervene to send Jesus, but not to save the suffering children? I don't know. I won't know in this lifetime. When I feel the crush of sadness about it, about the loss every person will endure, I don't want to hear the glorious strains. I want to hear the cry of God's own heart. Because I can't pretend that all is well and lovely.
What Child Is This is set to the beautiful melody Greensleeves. The minor key draws me to the beautiful lyrics. Because even in the triumphant last two lines of each verse, the victory stands in the middle of the pain, not in denial. And I believe that is where Christmas is the most valuable, the most important. Not in pretending that everything is fine. But that even in the darkest time of the year, even when we are mired in the darkest times of our lives, we are not alone in that darkness. God does not rise above that and ignore our sorrow. Instead, the story of a baby born in the squalor of a stable, born to common people rather than royalty, born into the bondage of the rule of Rome, that story is what gives me hope. If you get a chance, look up the tune to this ancient plainsong. You can be a purist and not listen to goopy SATB versions, or you can just enjoy a good recording. Think of the voices who have sung it through the centuries. Evermore and evermore.
1. Of the Father's love begotten
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the Source, the Ending He,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see
Evermore and evermore.
2. Oh, that birth forever blessed
When the Virgin, full of grace,
By the Holy Ghost conceiving,
Bare the Savior of our race,
And the Babe, the world's Redeemer,
First revealed His sacred face
Evermore and evermore.
3. O ye heights of heaven, adore Him;
Angel hosts, His praises sing;
Powers, dominions, bow before Him
And extol our God and King.
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Every voice in concert ring
Evermore and evermore.
4. This is He whom Heaven-taught singers
Sang of old with one accord;
Whom the Scriptures of the prophets
Promised in their faithful word.
Now He shines, the Long-expected;
Let creation praise its Lord
Evermore and evermore.
5. Christ, to Thee, with God the Father,
And, O Holy Ghost, to Thee
Hymn and chant and high thanksgiving
And unending praises be,
Honor, glory, and dominion,
And eternal victory
Evermore and evermore.
Monday, October 3, 2016
Little Feathers: Oh, THAT Inner Child
Little Feathers: Oh, THAT Inner Child: It used to make me a little uneasy, the admonishment to "get in touch with your inner child". Like a lot of other people, I poo-po...
Oh, THAT Inner Child
It used to make me a little uneasy, the admonishment to "get in touch with your inner child". Like a lot of other people, I poo-poohed what we liked to belittle with the term psychobabble. You know, because, clearly, we were too sophisticated and well adjusted to need any kind of therapy. Funny how trends go. Or maybe we really do simply grow more open minded with age. At any rate, this morning while checking Facebook (where else can I see my friends from 62 years of life lived in different places?) I had one of the those little epiphanies. And yes, we have joked about those, too. But this was a sweet one, and I had to write it down so I could remember it happened.
Part of the reason I never like the inner child saying was because I thought it meant to go back in time and try to heal the hurts your young self suffered. Or to peel back the years of protective armor and see who is really under there, all vulnerable and raw. No doubt that is part of the agenda, for some. But this morning I was reminded that children can sometimes have a purity of thought, a keener understanding of things that has not yet been muddied by self preservation. It's that inner child I want to summon.
Remember when all of life was ahead of you, and you didn't worry about anything? I mean, go all the way back to the time when you thought your parents could shield you from anything scary. When just putting on pajamas warm out of the dryer was a moment of nirvana. Eating your grandma's cooking nourished your heart because you felt her love way deep down in your bones. When running was easy, skipping was preferred, and riding a bike was very much like having wings. Remember when you imagined your life as an adult, and you were just barely short of a superhero? Before you messed up enough to doubt yourself. Before tragedies made you doubt that anyone anywhere was really in charge.
Children see things that adults can't see sometimes. That there really is such a thing as magic. That no biologist can categorize away the magic of a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. That falling leaves whisper as they circle to the ground. That sticks floating in a stream will someday reach the ocean, and it will matter to someone or something somewhere. That the safety they feel in their family's circle of love is real and lasting. They have not yet had the wonder educated out of them.
One author told a workshop of children's writers that some of us have a child inside who remembers clearly what it felt like to be a certain age. Not that we are stuck there, needing to solve some puzzle to move on and grow up, like some poor stranded ghost who has to prove who murdered them. But that some have been gifted with the sight of a child for whatever reason. Maybe just to create stories kids can relate to. The picture books I love the most are the ones that the author got from the child-mind, leaving behind the temptation to let the adult peek through and wink at the reader. There are a lot of those, too. And some are so clever I have to like them. But the pure ones, the ones that take me back to the simple time when I really did believe in magic, those books stay with me.
Imagine if every adult walking the earth saw the intricate beauty of creation and put the preservation of that magic above monetary gain. What if it was simply more important to honor the earth and the sea and the sky that it was to make money off them? Was there ever a child who had a lemonade stand and refused to serve the friend who came along without a nickle? Was there ever a child who saw a dog suffering and didn't cry tears of shared pain?
Imagine if every human had the instinct to be honest that small children have. Not cruel, not mocking and shaming, but honest. Because if we are truly honest, we have to admit that we not better than someone else. That just because we were born in a loving home to parents with the means to make a good life, doesn't mean we deserve more than some who were not. Kids know that luck should come from a four leaf clover, not the color of your skin or the color of your political party.
Children aren't natural bullies. They have to learn that. Small children, left to their own natural inclinations, are loving.
It's not rocket science. It's not even a new thought (yes, Shakespeare was right). But it is worth hoping for. That we can get in touch with that inner child. The one who loves life and believes in the good, sees the unanswered questions as fabulous mysteries, and hopes for the future. That inner child.
Part of the reason I never like the inner child saying was because I thought it meant to go back in time and try to heal the hurts your young self suffered. Or to peel back the years of protective armor and see who is really under there, all vulnerable and raw. No doubt that is part of the agenda, for some. But this morning I was reminded that children can sometimes have a purity of thought, a keener understanding of things that has not yet been muddied by self preservation. It's that inner child I want to summon.
Remember when all of life was ahead of you, and you didn't worry about anything? I mean, go all the way back to the time when you thought your parents could shield you from anything scary. When just putting on pajamas warm out of the dryer was a moment of nirvana. Eating your grandma's cooking nourished your heart because you felt her love way deep down in your bones. When running was easy, skipping was preferred, and riding a bike was very much like having wings. Remember when you imagined your life as an adult, and you were just barely short of a superhero? Before you messed up enough to doubt yourself. Before tragedies made you doubt that anyone anywhere was really in charge.
Children see things that adults can't see sometimes. That there really is such a thing as magic. That no biologist can categorize away the magic of a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. That falling leaves whisper as they circle to the ground. That sticks floating in a stream will someday reach the ocean, and it will matter to someone or something somewhere. That the safety they feel in their family's circle of love is real and lasting. They have not yet had the wonder educated out of them.
One author told a workshop of children's writers that some of us have a child inside who remembers clearly what it felt like to be a certain age. Not that we are stuck there, needing to solve some puzzle to move on and grow up, like some poor stranded ghost who has to prove who murdered them. But that some have been gifted with the sight of a child for whatever reason. Maybe just to create stories kids can relate to. The picture books I love the most are the ones that the author got from the child-mind, leaving behind the temptation to let the adult peek through and wink at the reader. There are a lot of those, too. And some are so clever I have to like them. But the pure ones, the ones that take me back to the simple time when I really did believe in magic, those books stay with me.
Imagine if every adult walking the earth saw the intricate beauty of creation and put the preservation of that magic above monetary gain. What if it was simply more important to honor the earth and the sea and the sky that it was to make money off them? Was there ever a child who had a lemonade stand and refused to serve the friend who came along without a nickle? Was there ever a child who saw a dog suffering and didn't cry tears of shared pain?
Imagine if every human had the instinct to be honest that small children have. Not cruel, not mocking and shaming, but honest. Because if we are truly honest, we have to admit that we not better than someone else. That just because we were born in a loving home to parents with the means to make a good life, doesn't mean we deserve more than some who were not. Kids know that luck should come from a four leaf clover, not the color of your skin or the color of your political party.
Children aren't natural bullies. They have to learn that. Small children, left to their own natural inclinations, are loving.
It's not rocket science. It's not even a new thought (yes, Shakespeare was right). But it is worth hoping for. That we can get in touch with that inner child. The one who loves life and believes in the good, sees the unanswered questions as fabulous mysteries, and hopes for the future. That inner child.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Little Feathers: The Dance Floor
Little Feathers: The Dance Floor: For the past several years, I've been thinking about my life as a journey. Focusing on the moving forward part, not expecting to arrive ...
The Dance Floor
For the past several years, I've been thinking about my life as a journey. Focusing on the moving forward part, not expecting to arrive a destination. All the while thinking that I needed to be growing, learning, gaining insight and wisdom. Somehow it all seemed uphill. And yet, there were niggling inconsistencies with that model of my purpose in life. For one, why would I seem to need to learn the same lessons over and over, if I was indeed on a path toward something? Even switchbacks constantly gain elevation.
Happily, that pathway/journey/hike-up-the-spiritual-mountain metaphor was blown up recently by a mind-altering video my friend Jeri Saper shared on facebook. What if life is not about the journey? What if it's not about taking a trip to somewhere more enlightened? What if it's more about the experience of this moment, more along the lines of flowing with the music. A dance floor instead of a mountain path?
It works. It works for me. It explains why I would experience lessons again and again in a slightly different way. Maybe a different spiritual language. And this idea makes it okay for me to learn it again. I get another go at it, not because I'm not smart enough or good enough, but because I will benefit from experiencing it again. Because it's a gift. Sure, Judy, you can do that in your street shoes. But can you do it in tap shoes? Pointe shoes? Cowboy boots?
I love the dance floor idea for other reasons. It's a level place where others are laughing, dancing, singing, enjoying the music. Sometimes we dance together, sparking energy in each other. Sometimes we stand on the edge and watch, not because we can't do it, but because we need a rest. Because we need to watch. Because watching is therapeutic.
Back on the trail, I was only aware of those who were further along than me. And I could never catch up. On the dance floor, we are all in this together. And if the DJ plays one we don't like, well, we just sit it out. Or we dance anyway, to heck with the expectations of the song. I can do a mean Charleston to a hip hop song.
Perception is everything. I like this dance floor thing. Music, please.
Happily, that pathway/journey/hike-up-the-spiritual-mountain metaphor was blown up recently by a mind-altering video my friend Jeri Saper shared on facebook. What if life is not about the journey? What if it's not about taking a trip to somewhere more enlightened? What if it's more about the experience of this moment, more along the lines of flowing with the music. A dance floor instead of a mountain path?
It works. It works for me. It explains why I would experience lessons again and again in a slightly different way. Maybe a different spiritual language. And this idea makes it okay for me to learn it again. I get another go at it, not because I'm not smart enough or good enough, but because I will benefit from experiencing it again. Because it's a gift. Sure, Judy, you can do that in your street shoes. But can you do it in tap shoes? Pointe shoes? Cowboy boots?
I love the dance floor idea for other reasons. It's a level place where others are laughing, dancing, singing, enjoying the music. Sometimes we dance together, sparking energy in each other. Sometimes we stand on the edge and watch, not because we can't do it, but because we need a rest. Because we need to watch. Because watching is therapeutic.
Back on the trail, I was only aware of those who were further along than me. And I could never catch up. On the dance floor, we are all in this together. And if the DJ plays one we don't like, well, we just sit it out. Or we dance anyway, to heck with the expectations of the song. I can do a mean Charleston to a hip hop song.
Perception is everything. I like this dance floor thing. Music, please.
Monday, May 23, 2016
Little Feathers: Growing Up Big
Little Feathers: Growing Up Big: Growing Up Big Rewind. Back to 1954. A really big baby, one with toes that hung over the edge of the box for footprints on the birth ce...
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