Deep Water

"Way out on the deep blue sea

Let the waves just carry me, to deep, deep water

To deep, deep water"

--Sarah Hawker
"Deep Water"

I fell in love with a song last week. I discovered it by accident while searching for another song on YouTube. It's called "Deep Water" and it's written by Sarah Hawker and performed beautifully by Sarah and her singing partner Debra Clifford, The Lonesome Sisters. I fell in love with them too, because when I posted on their Facebook page how much I loved the song, they responded with genuine gratitude. How charming is that? 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_j4UWcX-Hc

I love this song for its simple guitar arrangement and its beautiful harmonies. I love it because it's the type of song I love to sing most: A beautiful ballad with harmonies just crying out to be sung. Harmonizing with other singers is nothing short of a spiritual experience for me. It connects me to another person in a way that I can't put into words. I feel like our blended voices become more than the sum of their parts. Together they become a whole new voice, part of us, but outside of us too. And I have been fortunate enough to have this wonderful experience with some very special people. In just a couple of days I will have it again with my lovely friend, Ellen, who has the purest most beautiful soprano voice I have ever known. She is truly a songbird in human form. And I am grateful for the opportunity to sing with her again before she flies her songbird self off to Iowa for a fresh start in her life.

But there are other reasons the song "Deep Water" spoke to me. So often I am afraid to tread deep water, to spend time there letting the waves just carry me. Give me an oar and let me shout directions. Don't just leave me there to float on the waves. And yet sometimes that's where I need to be. I try so hard to be in control, to be the captain of my little vessel on the wide blue sea. But, while I can chart a course, stockpile supplies, gather together a crew, so often it is the waves that show me where I need to go. I love the first verse of the song.

All my intentions and all of my plans
and all of my maps to far distant lands
Float lifeless across the oceans darkened floor
The broken compass of my lonely dreams
Lays buried beneath a shipwreck of schemes
The sound of the wind on the water is all that remains

The sound of the wind on the water is all that remains, not maps or GPS or compasses. The sound of the wind on the water. What happens when we listen to the wind on the waves of our longings, our dreams?  When we are faced with big questions that do not have easy answers, what would happen if we let go of the tiller for awhile and let the waves carry us?  

There is a beautiful poem by poet John O'Donohue called "For Longing." One of my favorite lines in the poem is:

May you have the wisdom to enter generously into
   your own unease
To discover the new direction your longing wants
   you to take.

Deep water. Thank you Sarah Hawker and Debra Clifford for the beautiful song, and for the gentle reminder that it is ok to let go of the helm sometimes, to let the waves carry us. In fact, it's more than ok. It's what we need.

The Lonesome Sisters singing the hymn, "Bright Morning Stars" on the front porch. Good stuff.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tW00jOvwg3M&feature=related

Clarity $1.99

"Imagination gets a test 
at the place I love the best.
How could I get dressed 
without a thrift shop?"

-- Dan Zanes

I found Clarity for $1.99. Who knew it would be so cheap? Here I'd been walking around in a muddle of confusion and indecision and there was clarity, right in front of me. It was on the sale rack even, blue letters on a black T-shirt: Clarity.

It's a sickness for me, really, thrift store shopping. It's an addiction and I'm a big time junkie. The fact that I own at least five black skirts is just a hint of the depth of this addiction. Don't even get me started on shirts and shoes. My bulging closet and dresser cannot contain the dirty little secrets of my habit.

I don't like shopping retail. The merchandise is designed to taunt shoppers. And it makes me feel inadequate, shabby. I'm reminded of my Glamour magazine days when I believed that if I just had the right clothes and hair, everything else in my life would magically fall into place. Retail stores try to tell me how I "should"  look, not necessarily how I want to look. Besides, I can never afford the clothes I really like so it just ends up being an exercise in unrequited longing. Who needs it!

Thrift store shopping, however, is always brimming with possibility. I rarely go in looking for a specific item, but I usually shop with a specific mood. There's the sensible-work-clothes mood. The creative-singing-gig mood. The outdoorsy-camping mood. The walk-on-the-beach mood. The let's-try-something-completely-different mood. Of course the let's-try-something-completely-different mood can sometimes lead to the what-the-hell-was-I-thinking-mood, but there's no serious harm done.

The day I found clarity on the sale rack for $1.99 was a delight. After all, rarely do we find clarity when we set out looking for it. Don't get me wrong. You have to look. You always have to be looking. But we tend to find clarity when we patiently sift through a lot of possibilities. We have to wrestle with desire, longing for the silky blouse that's not your size instead of the soft, comfy shirt that is. We have to be adventurous, willing to  take risks to open up new possibilities. We have to learn to tell the difference between cheap thrills and quality merchandise. And know that every now and then we should go with a cheap thrill, just for the fun of it. 

Finding clarity (or love, or hope, or wisdom, or inspiration...) is a lot like thrift store shopping. Go in with an open mind, a sense of adventure, and a willingness to be disappointed from time to time. And keep going back! Never stop looking. You will find what you need.

Certain About Uncertainty

"When we venture into the Mystery, 

we are entering the ground of the infinite with the powers of a finite mind. 

An awe-filled agnosticism is perhaps the better part of wisdom."

-- Rev. Marilyn Sewell

I do not spend a lot of time wondering about the existence of God. But I do spend time thinking about the Mystery. And by Mystery (with a capital M) I mean all of the big questions about our place in the universe rolled up together. I think about the Mystery, not because I need to figure it all out, but because it fills me with a deep sense of awe. And in that awe I find humility and peace. 

I say this not to convince my theist or my atheist friends to question their certainty, but rather to explain that being agnostic does not mean being confused. I find it a tremendous relief to let go of the need for answers to what I believe are unanswerable questions: Does God exist? If so, what is God? What happens when we die? Why are we here in the first place? To my thinking, it is hubris to claim that we have The Truth when we cannot possibly support that claim with evidence.

But what about faith? Faith is not about proof after all. It's about trust.

Faith is beautiful when it is open and accepting. When I can say, I have my faith and you have yours and they are both possible, that is beautiful. Faith that says, this is how I understand the big questions and this is how my neighbor understands them, and there is much to be learned from both is wise. But blind faith (or faith with blinders on), faith that is afraid to question or doubt, makes me very nervous. Faith that claims to have The Truth and refuses to acknowledge the truths (small t) of another faith is divisive and too often dangerous. Faith that says I am right and you are wrong has lead to far too much human suffering and senseless violence in human history.

I did a little on-line research into agnosticism and I like this definition by Austin Cline:

"Philosophically, agnosticism can be described as being based upon two separate principles. The first principle is epistemological in that it relies upon empirical and logical means for acquiring knowledge about the world. The second principle is moral in that it insists that we have an ethical duty not to assert claims for ideas which we cannot adequately support either through evidence or logic."

It sounds a little dry I know, but that's not how it feels to me. Because not knowing the answers opens the door for wonder. And wonder can be awe-inspiring. 

What I find really awe-inspiring are moments when I feel a deep sense of connection to something larger than myself. And if I am open, these moments happen a lot: When I am walking the dog on the beach, when I am with my Unitarian Universalist community, when I am hiking in the Sierras, when I am with family and friends, when I am singing, when a baby is born or someone I love dies, in times of sadness and joy. Any time I am truly present for my life I experience that connection. Is that God? I don't know. I don't have all the answers, but I love all the questions.

Let The Mystery Be
 by Iris Dement
The perfect agnostic hymn
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlaoR5m4L80

Two Paintings

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.
...live in the question.” 

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

Earlier this summer I spent a lovely afternoon at the Norton Simon Museum with my friends Terri and Janis. After we'd looked at Japanese wood block prints, renaissance paintings, 18th and 19th century European art, and contemporary art for a couple of hours, Janis gave us an assignment. She said, if you could take just one painting home and hang it in your living room, which one would you choose? What a fun way to wander through a museum. I took the game to heart and revisited some of the galleries. 

I was pretty sure I wouldn't want a painting from the renaissance hanging in my living room, beautiful though they are. On the whole, they're too high church for a room that is home to a variety of books on Buddhism, Japanese manga, and Calvin and Hobbes collections. And I don't really want to be looked down upon by a portrait of the Madonna and Child or a martyred saint whenever my language gets a bit too colorful or my thoughts a bit too sinful.

Much of the 17th and 18th century art was a tad too dramatic for my taste. We don't go on a lot of fox hunts in my family. Nor do we lounge on our sofa in the nude. David With the Head of Goliath or Suicide of Cleopatra seemed a bit over the top for a room where some family members sit around in their pajamas eating cereal and reading Garfield comic books in the morning. The Impressionists are lovely, of course, but Monet and Degas remind me of my college dorm room where my roommate Laura and I also had a beer bottle display and a tacky postcard collection. 

In the end I chose two paintings. I explained to Janis that I really needed them both, because they spoke to me as a pair. She said that was OK. She's generous that way. Painted nearly 200 years apart, they both depict women lost in thought. The woman in Young Girl Writing A Love Letter, by Pietro Antonio Rotari c. 1755, wears a dreamy smile as she writes to the object of her affection. She is hopeful, full of passion and dreams. Whereas the subject in Woman With A Book, by Pablo Picasso, 1932 strikes me as more serious, perhaps wondering about the direction her life is taking, questioning her heart. I get the feeling that she isn't thinking about the book in her lap.

I bought note cards with each of these paintings at the gift shop so I could hang them together, side by side, in my house. (I thought the security guards might not approve of me moving paintings around the museum.) When I look at them, I feel a connection to these two women as they contemplate their lives, the choices they've made, the dreams they've had, the people they've loved, the direction their lives are taking. They remind me how important it is to pause, to wonder, to reflect, to ask the deepest questions of my heart, and wait patiently for the answers to unfold.

Two of my favorite women deep in thought at the Norton Simon Museum

Musical Bridge

"I never feel age ... 

If you have creative work, you don't have age or time."

-- Louise Nevelson

Last Saturday my friend Rick and I had the privilege of playing a tribute to Woody Guthrie for a small group of folks at a local retirement community. In the shade of a large Oak tree we played and sang Woody's dust bowl ballads and work songs, shared stories about Woody's life, and drank spiked lemonade. Our guests sang along with true heart and soul to every song they knew the words to. And at the end they thanked us warmly for coming and sharing this music with them. But I'll betcha not one of them felt more gratitude than I did.

The event was organized by a woman named Judy from my church. She heard me sing Woody Guthrie's song, "Deportee" one Sunday morning and began a campaign to get me to help her create this small event. For weeks she pestered me about it. She loved Woody Guthrie and wanted to celebrate his 100th birthday with her friends and his music. I put her off for several weeks. I had a busy summer planned, I said. I have to work, I have an exchange student coming, I'll be away on vacation for Woody's birthday. But she would not let up. Eventually she won me over (or wore me down). And what I began with reluctance, I finished with pure joy.

Of course learning some new Woody Guthrie songs and researching his life was fun and interesting, but the best part of this experience were the connections I made with Judy and her friends. I learned that Judy was a bit of a radical when she was a college student at Antioch University in Ohio. She became a Unitarian Universalist just two years ago after meeting our Minister Emeritus who is a resident of her retirement community. And she feels right at home in our congregation of liberal free thinkers. She is charming, funny, determined, generous, and likes to shake things up a bit. When she offered me a cup of lemonade spiked with gin before I sang, I knew this woman and I could be good friends.

When Rick and I finished our set something really magical happened. One of Judy's friends, a frail looking man with a North Carolina accent, came up with his guitar and a small well worn notebook filled with typewritten songs (as in typed on a typewriter). He got out his guitar and invited us to join him on "Down By The Riverside." I harmonized and Rick played guitar with him. And this lovely gentleman came to life. We played more songs together with Judy and a few others adding their wise voices to the mix. When we finished, this dear man said we had made his day. But you know what? I'd arm wrestle him  over who received more joy from that experience. I felt like I was the one who was handed a rare gift. 

And then I thought, why does this have to be rare? I'm going back as soon as I can to sing more songs with these wonderful people. Thank you, dear Judy, for pestering me. You knew what was good for me.

Time To Bang Some Pans

101 California Street Shootings is the name given to a mass shooting that took place July 1, 1993 in San Francisco, California, claiming the lives of nine people, including the shooter. The killings sparked a number of legal and legislative actions that were precursors to the Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act, H.R.3355, 103rd Congress (1994). The Act took effect in 1994, and expired on September 13, 2004, through the operation of a sunset provision. (Wikipedia)

***

In 1993 I worked as a claim's assistant for an insurance brokerage firm on the 22nd floor of a San Francisco high rise at 50 California Street. It was mind numbing work, but it paid the rent. The brokers I worked for were young, ostentatiously rich, foul mouthed and loud, politically and socially conservative, yet surprisingly supportive of this liberal psychology student processing claims to get through graduate school. I was a fish out of water in that world of designer suits and three martini lunches.


But on the afternoon of July 1, 1993 all differences between us were temporarily erased. On that afternoon we were all simply human, all equally vulnerable, and all stunned as we stood in our conference room, watching stretchers with the bodies of dead and wounded people being carried out of the office building across the street. 


It began with an alert that shots had been fired in the 101 California Street building. As a precaution, our building was locked down. Radios were tuned to news stations in an attempt to figure out what was going on. My friend Wayne worked in the 101 California Street building. I repeatedly tried to call him but phones were not being answered. Wayne's wife Sarah would not hear from him for some time. Fortunately, he was safe on another floor of the building. It would be several hours before the police would discover the gunman in a stairwell, dead from a self-inflicted gun shot wound, after he had taken the lives of eight people and wounded six more. No clear motive was found, only a largely unintelligible letter left by the gunman including a list of odd complaints and bizarre accusations. 


The recent shooting spree in Aurora, Colorado, took me back to that day in 1993. I experienced the same horror and outrage I felt on that frightening summer afternoon. And shame too. Shame for my country. How is it possible for a mentally ill man to obtain a semiautomatic assault rifle more easily than a motorcycle driver's license? I don't know how Wayne LaPierre, executive vice president of and spokesman for the National Rifle Association sleeps at night, or how he or anyone else can use the second amendment to justify the sale of assault rifles to the general public. We can all point our fingers at the NRA and the politicians beholden to them (and we should), but we also need to look at other cultural influences that lead to these tragedies.


While the vast majority of people with mental illness are not violent, we need to look at how we as a society view, treat, and contribute to the type of mental illness that would lead a young man like James Holmes to open fire in a movie theater. While mental illnesses occur all over the world, definitions, understanding of cause, stigmatization, treatment, and even the expression of symptoms are culture bound.


In a January, 2010 article in the New York Times magazine entitled, The Americanization of Mental Illness (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/10/magazine/10psyche-t.html?pagewanted=all), writer Ethan Watters says, "we can become psychologically unhinged for many reasons that are common to all, like personal traumas, social upheavals or biochemical imbalances in our brains. Modern science has begun to reveal these causes. Whatever the trigger, however, the ill individual and those around him invariably rely on cultural beliefs and stories to understand what is happening. Those stories, whether they tell of spirit possession, semen loss or serotonin depletion, predict and shape the course of the illness in dramatic and often counterintuitive ways."


We are a culture that places rugged individualism over interdependence. We are a culture where celebrity is highly prized. We are a culture that marginalizes our mentally ill and regularly cuts funding for treatment, resulting in higher and higher numbers of mentally ill people living on the streets untreated and self medicating their symptoms with alcohol or illegal drugs. And, sadly, we are a culture that cares more about protecting our individual "freedom" to own any kind of gun we choose than protecting our citizens, particularly the most vulnerable among us. Is it really any surprise that this tragedy occurred? I think it's surprising that it doesn't happen more often.


I do not have any easy answers. But that does not mean I should sit on my hands and do nothing. I agree with writer Anne Lamott's response to this recent tragedy when she says, "All I can think to do is what we've always done. We work towards peace and non-violence. We register voters. We create art and music in the face of madness. We light candles. The praying people pray: Lord have mercy. The meditating people meditate. We create Love and beauty as radical acts. We take care of the poor, and teach people to read and write. And as Molly Ivins would urge us to do if she were still here, we bang our pans. We rise up, peacefully, take to the streets and we bang our pans and we make a ruckus, and we stop this war, too." 


May the banging of pans begin in earnest.

Keeping the Shark Alive

"Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. 

Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then."

 --Katharine Hepburn

A couple of weeks ago, I shared a reflection at my Unitarian church about the wisdom I received from one of the disabled students I work with. The things I learned from her were: Everyone wants to be seen, everyone wants to be heard, everyone wants to be touched, and patience gives you time to really see, hear, and care for a person.

I think I do a pretty good job putting these lessons into practice.... 

At work.

At home? Well, I have a confession to make. I am not always very nice to my husband. Sometimes, by the end of the day, I'm tired of being patient and understanding. I'm done being nice. But why is that? I don't think I'm alone in this. Why is it sometimes so hard to be nice to the people we're closest too? Why do the people who know us the best, bring out the worst in us? 

I don't have any easy answers. If I did, I'd probably be a nicer person. I'm hoping some of you will have some answers that might help all of us married people. I have a few thoughts though. I think a lot has to do with with the mundane, day to day chores and tasks of family life. They take up a lot of time. And it's easy to neglect spending quality time with your spouse when you've got kids to raise. But we do so at our own peril. When we don't make time to just be together (without kids, bills, chores) we forget what brought us together in the first place. He becomes the guy who leaves the bread and jam out on the counter every morning. And I become the woman who squeezes the toothpaste tube the wrong way. 

So I want to take a look at those lessons I learned from my student again:

Everyone wants to be seen: I think my husband would like me to see him as more than the guy who cleans the cat litter box. I KNOW I would like him to see me as more than just the woman who never has dinner ready when he wants to eat. I think we both want to be seen for the things we are passionate about. What brings him to life? What makes me light up? Where is the spark in each of us?

Everyone wants to be heard: Sometimes I forget to ask my husband about his day. I'm guessing he would like me to ask him how he feels more often. He'd probably really like me to listen to the stories from his day that made him smile, laugh, feel frustrated, angry. Really listen and ask questions. This is how he spends his days after all, and therefore his life. I would like him to be interested in hearing about the things that excite me. I would like him to be curious about me.

Everyone wants to be touched: We've been married a long time. We forget to give each other a kiss when we say goodbye, a hug when we return. When was the last time we held hands? Why don't I ever offer to rub his back when he looks tired? I firmly believe people need touch to feel cared for. 

Patience gives you time to really see, hear, and care for a person: Ah patience. That means slowing down and being fully present, letting things unfold as they may. That is so hard to practice with work and kids, bills and chores. I'm sure my husband would appreciate it if I didn't always sound like I was annoyed with him. I know he would like it if I slowed down, made more time for him. 

Marriage is not for the faint of heart. As Woody Allen says in Annie Hall, “A relationship, I think, is like a shark, you know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.”  Our shark is not dead. But I think marriage means spending a lot of time resuscitating that shark. And I think kindness is necessary for basic life support. I'm going to try to remember that.

Annie Hall shark scene: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RFH9_M0OaY