A moment of brightness

Saturday, I worked a yoga show. Amid serving cups of tea, a family of six gathered in the booth adjacent. The four children ranged in age from the bright red mopped baby in arms of mom to the eldest boy, shy of 7. The two middle children, girls, had bedraggled brown waves that resembled my own hair when emerging from bed. At one point in playing peek-a-boo with the baby, I noticed the smallest girl watching me from the lowered curtain rod.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a playful tone.

She responded by skipping off with her father who said, “She was a nice lady, wasn’t she?”

All of a sudden she came behind my table and gave my neck a big bear hug. Moved by this sweet gesture of kindness, I walked to the other adjacent booth where the family was now perched, inquiring after the baby’s name. Before too long both of the little girls began asking questions.

“Do you believe in fairies?”
“Hmm. That’s a good question- do you?”
Nod.

“Do you think they have shimmery wings?”
Nod.

And the child was back hugging me again, telling me, “I think you’re beautiful.”

I was this child. I am this child. I just have forgotten how to hug and seemingly forget too often to say the words: “I think you’re beautiful.” I love children as teachers. There’s something so sage about wisdom being mirrored back into adults by children. It’s beautiful.

a song offered to the writer

I sing. This is no surprise to those in my inner sanctum (or those driving in the lane near to my driver’s side window.) A joy as immense as the sky is long stretched over Texas bursts from my open lips in the form of matching what is heard and shifting it slightly.

Last weekend at church, I happily stood with the band, my turn in our succession of female singers. The set of music they had given ranged from great beefy songs full of shadowy minor keys and thoughtful lyrics to peppy numbers that made me slap my thigh in succession of the beats. I was ready and eager to sing the set through. Upon remarking how fun a set K had selected for Sunday, some guys walked through the doors, heading toward the stage. K mentioned one of them had written the music for several of the songs. Somehow I felt equal parts anticipation and excitement. The pianist / composer took his place right behind me and I found myself bound up with a rush of adrenaline as this symbiosis of sound began.

There is something magical about singing with the composer leading. And I would also say, there is something to be said for having your way with a song that is different from what the CD dictates or perhaps from the usual harmonies they have come to expect. A spiritual experience is all you can really attempt to use to define the feelings and rush derived from such a coming together.

The composer and I spoke of craft, of writing and singing, of playing and tonality. Both of us love the shadowy bits and interweaving golden threads of hopefulness. Which is kind of like life. Amid the shadowy bits, strands of hope run, cords of joy stand firm, not easily dissuaded from being that anchor that can moor us, giving a center when the ship seems to run aground.

I will say it again. I am grateful for singing. I am grateful for the song. And to the healer of ears, love that it all rises like incense and smoke, joyful. Even when rising from the shadowy bits.

up late speculating

Every morning in the car, I tune in happily to N-P-R. There is something satisfying and grounding about this habit. Sometimes the drive includes a stop for a soy chai but most of the time it’s just the straight shot from my house with Renee Montaigne.

Last week they aired a special forum held in York, PA with people who would represent the demographics of the town talking about the presidential election. Attendees answered honestly over their reservations (read “moments of uncomfortable silence”). Another afternoon, I heard a short memoir narrative of a man recounting the “hurricane parties” they would throw while growing up in South Texas when he was a boy. All the neighbors would come over for bar-b-que, potato salad and beer. He described the cake having the name of the hurricane spelled out in icing. Now living in Massachusetts, he shared this story to help others think twice about the people who wait out the storms. He pointed to their great propensity for hope.

This morning however, I was thinking again about the economy, as I’ve been watching L-ehman B-rothers through the headlines the way I would track the movements of Hurricane Ike. Today’s news of M-errill L-ynch being bought out by Bank of America left me curious again at the workings of our free market society. But what floored me was the government’s decision to loan $85 billion to A-I-G so they would not further disrupt our fragile economy. Wow. My brain started firing lots of questions, primarily, where will the money come from? What about other companies that have yet to bleed out their ensuing failures? Is another non-American company going to have another opportunity of owning more of America if more companies continue failing? We are the melting pot, yes, but what if the pot tips over and spills into the ocean that now separates us from East Asia?

This makes me think of church planting. And decision-making. And the rise and fall of civilizations. I am all in favor that sometimes things have to die. It’s a cycle of nature. We expect it in each other, so why don’t we expect it in the organizations and companies that have become so familiar? Business involves levels of risk, but it also involves levels of leadership. How does it get that bad without someone pulling the string to sound the whistle? We are in a bear market and various economists this morning cautioned that it will continue to get worse before it gets better, but my favorite was the voice who intoned that “if you are living within your means, you should pull through fine.” Within your means has such different definitions for Americans, doesn’t it?

My head then went to thinking about my friend Scucchi. She has always been so precise with her finances, always so clear about her decisions. The risks she makes have been reviewed from many angles and make sense. I would vote for her in a heartbeat as President of the United States, and that’s not even getting into her foreign policy know-how.

But I digress. Tonight, I sat at a coffeehouse revising poems and happened upon an early draft of a poem entitled “american dream”. This new financial situation we find ourselves in factored into a poem where its importance had been minimal before, but now had expanded.

Thank God for Warren Buffett and the prophets reading the wall during doomsday forecasts, bequeathing a second chance or a third. May we give lavishly, live abundantly and squirrel away the extra for rainy day years like this one.