Look at those eyes. Look at that smile. And look at “all together now”.
May this be our world of the future. Eyes wide open in wonder, waking up to welcome the day.
The young ones are new, and not just their age. Despite what now shouts in our countries and cities, the we is coming … moving the I to the periphery. I can feel it.
We have separate bodies. Therefore it’s easy to conclude that we are separate people. Not so. Many of us hear the call of a lingering embrace, a call to enter the light in the other’s eyes.
It’s been so long that I’ve loved the song. It sings to me. In all those years, I’ve vaguely thought about learning the words and singing it in public. But there was no “oomph” to perform. I didn’t know if I was good enough to do that … and I didn’t care.
Now I do. During the last year, a mysterious pull has drawn me to the stage, urging me to open my mouth and let flow what wants to.
And so … here is “The Rose”. I see it as one of the finest songs ever written, evoking all the nuances of loving someone, of embracing life, of trusting that goodness is on its way. I am in awe when I read the words. I hope others will be in awe as I sing them …
Some say, “Love. It is a river That drowns the tender reed” Some say, “Love. It is a razor That leaves your soul to bleed” Some say, “Love. It is a hunger An endless aching need” I say, “Love. It is a flower And you its only seed”
It’s the heart afraid of breaking That never learns to dance It’s the dream afraid of waking That never takes the chance It’s the one who won’t be taken Who cannot seem to give And the soul afraid of dyin’ That never learns to live
When the night has been too lonely And the road has been too long And you think that love is only For the lucky and the strong Just remember in the winter Far beneath the bitter snows Lies a seed that with the sun’s love In the spring becomes the rose
I found this video on YouTube. Please receive the face of the first woman you see – Suzan Erens. There is so much beyond physical beauty.
This is not a picture of Mr. Chick but it seems right to me. He was my Grade 10 Geography teacher in 1964 … a huge muscular man with a deep voice. We kids were told he was a British commando in World War II. He sure struck fear into the heart of this scrawny, pimply 15-year-old.
On some days, one of us students had to give a speech, but we never knew whose turn it would be.
Imagine a baritone voice saying these words, ever so slowly:
Today’s speech will be given by …
(Then an incredibly long pause, during which my internal organs turned themselves into knots)
It’s 61 years later and the sweat is starting to come. If I fumbled my talk about the Rocky Mountains, I could see Mr. Chick reaching out and snapping my neck. Easy.
This teacher became the image of all my fears.
***
Today was my Music Theory class. It was test day. Each of us would be tested orally about our abilities in rhythm and sequences of musical note names. We’d be giving our answers as we read the sheet music of a short piece. Ten minutes each in the spotlight.
The teacher was naturally speaking in Dutch. Then a pause … and the word “Ben”. Student number one of ten.
I sat there loving Ben, praying for him. My prayers continued for Lamia, Melike, Bruce (!), Jérome, Veronique, Isabelle, Jan, Katinka and Gudrun. I held them all, one by one.
Our teacher is nothing like Oliver Chick, but 2025 was blending with 1964.
Today I could feel everyone cheering on each human being in turn. I hope my teenaged classmates were doing the same so many years ago.
I curl up on the couch in the evenings and read Pan’s Labyrinth, an entrancing novel of love and hate.
Last night I came upon a passage that brought me back to a moment earlier in my day.
Ofelia is a young girl. Mercedes is a middle-aged woman. They love each other.
“Do you know a lullaby?” Ofelia murmured.
Did she? Yes …
“Only one. But I don’t remember the words.”
“I don’t care. I still want to hear it.” Ofelia looked up at her pleadingly.
So Mercedes closed her eyes and while she was gently rocking another woman’s child in her arms, she began to hum the lullaby her mother had once sung to her and her brother. The wordless tune filled both her and the girl with the sweetness of love, like the first song ever sung on earth to the first child born. It sang of love and the pain it brings. And of the strength, even in the profoundest darkness.
So sweetly written, Cornelia Funke.
***
And earlier …
I love sitting in Sint-Salvatorkerk, the Ukrainian church in Gent. I was there yesterday morning.
Katarina welcomes people to her church. Most times, as I sit in meditation, I hear her singing … an echo in the sanctuary. It makes me smile.
Yesterday she walked up to me as I was getting ready to leave. We hugged. There’s a connection, so beyond her minimal English and my minimal Dutch.
I said “Wij zingen?” A request that we sing together. And so from her mouth came the first words of “Ave Maria”. They rose to the blue ceiling.
I didn’t know the lyrics and the melody was iffy in my mind …
She’s 13-years-old. She stands on the stage and starts playing her trumpet. The audience stills. Time stops.
And all is well
I’ve had the thought that consciousness shows up two ways in my life:
The first I call number one – daily tasks; conversations about the weather, politics or sports; the dimmer switch on my lamp is on.
The second is number two – eyes wide open, stunned by the beauty of another soul, a sunset, a song. So bright!
The girl gave me number two. She caressed the melody with her instrument. Audience members and musicians in the orchestra just sat there, letting the waves of softness waft over them.
Patricia Albere is the founder of the Evolutionary Collective. About 150 souls from different parts of the world have entered and stabilized in this work: being spiritually connected with each other as we participate in the evolution of consciousness on Earth.
Last week Patricia hosted fifty or so of us on Zoom, in session one of her Evolutionary Eyes course. She had fine things to say. Here are a few of them, with my comments on each:
1. Something is covering over our humanity … What are they looking through?
My job is to look at my filters, usually ones of ego, that diminish my moment-to-moment experience of love.
2. There is much more that can happen here.
“There are things you don’t know that you don’t know.” May my eyes open to that which I’ve never encountered.
3. What kind of world do you want to live in?
One where I see an old friend on the street and my eyes explode in joy. “It’s you!” Or … even with a stranger. May I be “delighting in your company”.
4. What are you longing for?
To be seen. To be invited into another person’s life.
5. How do you handle the insanity of the world?
(It’s funny … I can’t remember if what I wrote next came from Patricia’s mouth or mine. Oh well, it came from us.)
Connect with the Divine. Open it up. Don’t work on the level of the world.
6. Who knows what will be released?
I don’t.
7. Where we put our energy matters.
So in this moment, as I tap the screen, do I worry about being understood by you readers or do I let my finger flow into an embrace?
8. Is this the whole thing?… What is your “Something Else”?
What am I evolving into? What are we evolving into? Am I willing to let the “not knowing” sit quietly with me, or do I rush to filling the empty space with analysis and busy-ness?
***
On the road again I just can’t wait to get on the road again The life I love is making music with my friends And I can’t wait to get on the road again
Last Tuesday at the Inaugural Prayer Service in the USA, Reverend Mariann Budde looked down from the pulpit into the eyes of Donald Trump. What came next was truly speaking truth to power:
Let me make one final plea, Mr. President.Millions have put their trust in you and, as you told the nation yesterday, you have felt the providential hand of a loving God.
In the name of our God, I ask you to have mercy upon the people in our country who are scared now. There are gay, lesbian and transgender children in Democratic, Republican, and Independent families, some who fear for their lives. The people who pick our crops and clean our office buildings, who labor in poultry farms and meat packing plants, who wash the dishes after we eat in restaurants and work the night shifts in hospitals.
They may not be citizens or have the proper documentation. But the vast majority of immigrants are not criminals. They pay taxes and are good neighbors. They are faithful members of our churches and mosques, synagogues, gurudwaras and temples.
I ask you to have mercy, Mr. President, on those in our communities whose children fear that their parents will be taken away.And that you help those who are fleeing war zones and persecution in their own lands to find compassion and welcome here.
Our God teaches us that we are to be merciful to the stranger, for we were all once strangers in this land. May God grant us the strength and courage to honor the dignity of every human being, to speak the truth to one another in love and walk humbly with each other and our God for the good of all people. Good of all people in this nation and the world.
Amen
***
Responses to Mariann’s words came swiftly:
A Radical Left hard line Trump hater [who] brought her church into the World of politics in a very ungracious way.
I support Bishop Budde’s gospel message of unity at a time when our nation continues to be so deeply polarized. Her heartfelt appeal to President Trump to show mercy toward the stranger and the vulnerable is not partisan politics, but the genuine witness of a pastor for her people. Our people. The people.
The person giving this sermon should be added to the deportation list.
The prophetic voice we desperately need right now
The only message Bishop Budde delivered through her unwelcoming and hypocritical words to the President was that the Episcopal Church’s motto of ‘All Are Welcome’ apparently doesn’t apply to the majority of Americans who voted for Donald Trump.
She is a valued and trusted pastor to her diocese and colleague to bishops throughout our church. We stand by Bishop Budde and her appeal for the Christian values of mercy and compassion.
[The cathedral was] taken over by gay activists.
I commend her for appealing directly to the President, asking him to recognize the universal Christian principle, shared by many other faiths, that we are all God’s children. Instead of taking this to heart, Trump responded with cheap personal insults – once again rebuking the principles of love, mercy and compassion.
The bishop used her sermon to target Trump and his policies. The homily is supposed to be God’s words to the congregation, delivered through the minister. Congregants expect to hear from heaven. Instead, what was delivered could have been written by the Democratic National Committee.
Rather than disparage one of the most respected women in spiritual leadership in this country, it would be more appropriate for President Trump to reflect on her message of empathy, understanding and inclusion.
Blasphemous
What would Jesus think of Rev. Budde’s sermon and her pleading with Trump for compassion towards those who are in need or who are different? That is what real Christians need to ask.
The Bible warns against false prophets, who are described as people who appear to be good but are actually harmful. The Bible says that false prophets are dangerous and should be avoided.
It seems power and greed of our politicians are taking many churches away from the teachings of Jesus. Humility and treating everyone equally are going by the wayside and judgment and a hardness are taking their place. Those who are the most self-righteous in their Christianity are not really Christians at all.
I’m offended that she abused the pulpit to deliver her personal, partisan message to the President, rather than seeking God’s face and delivering His words to the entire congregation.
For Christians across the nation, the choice is clear: to follow the path of fear and exclusion or to embrace the Gospel’s call to love boldly, act justly and stand with the marginalized. Bishop Budde chose the latter – and in doing so, she spoke for the majority of U.S. Christians.
Her platform as a religious leader demanded, to say the least, a more nuanced approach.
Hear me, you who devour the needy and annihilate the poor of the land! (Amos 8:4)
She was given a great honor today, a chance to unify America around a Christian message at the dawn of a new administration. Instead, she disgraced herself with a lecture you’d hear on CNN or an episode of The View.
I’ve heard people call her a “shrill, shrieking, lesbian feminazi”. It’s absolutely baffling. Did we listen to the same sermon?
Attended national prayer service today at the Washington National Cathedral during which Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde insulted rather than encouraged our great president
She’s a woman with short hair in a position they think only a man should hold, and she’s in an affirming church. Drawing from their very limited knowledge about the world, and I cannot emphasize enough how truly limited that knowledge is, those three things tell them she must be a lesbian.
Shame on you Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde for your totally inappropriate disgraceful un-Christian behavior.
It is hatred against women that’s provoked such violent responses. It happens any time a woman’s words go viral, especially when attached to a pulpit. We have to reckon with the ways this country and its men hate women. We women live with that hate daily.
***
Reverend Budde laments “our tendency to jump to outrage and not speak to one another with respect.”
“I don’t feel there’s a need to apologize for a request for mercy”
Last week during my cello lesson I wore a splint on my right thumb as I played. Because of arthritis, it’s the only way I can hold the bow for any length of time.
After about twenty minutes of playing (on and off), I felt my thumb escaping me … weakening, loosening. The quality of the sound was falling away, the bow grinding on the strings.
And then the hand and bow slipped off the strings entirely, migrating below the bridge (the wooden piece that holds the strings away from the body of the cello).
Oi! What was that?
My friend and fellow cellist Anja told me about an attachment for the bow with an indentation for the thumb. Apparently it’s worked for a lot of players.
Yesterday I had an appointment with Naomi, my occupational therapist. She tested my thumb … “It’s getting weaker.”
(Sigh)
No … Is the end of me playing the cello looming in the near future? That would make me so sad. Perhaps I’ll just kiss my thumb a lot.
***
On the other hand, I had an appointment with my eye doctor this morning. She tested and tested, and showed me an image of an extra layer on my retina. “We may have to remove it someday, but not now. There are risks, and the benefits pale in comparison at the moment.”
“However … your cataracts are growing, and sooner or later, I’ll need to operate so the clouding of your lenses can be eliminated. We can do it soon or leave it for a year or two.”
And then the words that shook my world …
“Your vision will be much improved”
“Maybe you won’t even need glasses anymore”
***
“What?!”
I’ve worn glasses for 60 years! Ever since an evil French teacher put a test on the board rather than on paper. And there I was sitting at the back of the room. Toast. The jig is up. “I’ll have to wear glasses!”
So perhaps my face will be unencumbered by plastic and glass in a few months. The body … better!
I just spent two delightful hours with my dear neighbour Dirk, enjoying the breakfast he had prepared for me. The food, though, was a small part of the story.
Our conversation soared and dived through the joys and sorrows of two lives. It was real. It was love.
I don’t know how to do “small talk” and neither does Dirk. It’s a skill I happily do without. For without the soul infusing our words, why do we bother speaking? It’s an empty shell of what could be in the precious moments we share.
At one point, I mentioned that I’m here on the planet to write. And not a diary. I want to touch people with my stories. Because life is a concert hall, not a closet.
I post just about every day on Facebook and Jetpack. Usually I get zero or two likes and zero or one comments. So I don’t know if I’m reaching other human beings.
Dirk’s response? “It doesn’t matter how many.”
And he told me a story …
He was a theatre director and once presented the play La Forza del Destino at La Monnaie, a performing arts centre in Brussels. About 1000 people were in the audience.
At the end was a standing ovation. I don’t know if it was true or “sort of”, where folks look to see what their neighbours are doing before standing.
Dirk talked to little groups of theatergoers in the lobby as the hall emptied. Much appreciation came his way, of the polite variety.
And then a couple in their 80’s, balanced with their canes, came forward. The woman’s eyes met Dirk’s and she said “That was so beautiful, Mr. Tanghe.”
Her husband beamed and said “You’ve made our day.”
This morning I spent most of two hours steeped in confusion. It was my Music Theory class at Poel. My previous understanding of rhythm was obliterated. It felt like an assault, so deeply not knowing. Add in my low understanding of Dutch … and there was despair.
My friend Jan sits beside me and does his best to translate but he too was struggling at times, and needed to focus on the teacher’s words. Jan so much wants to help me. I’m grateful.
And then …
In the middle of countless “Huh?!” moments, another overwhelm flooded me. I loved my classmates … all eight of them. I felt their beauty as they too scribbled notes and sometimes shook their heads within the mystery of music.
The jagged knife and warm bath joined in my mind and what came was truly beyond. The brightness of life closed my eyes. So much joy … so much pain. And the joy was winning. How can this be?
All nine of us are heroes of the best kind. Dealing with life’s tumults as best we can. Trying so hard to understand.
I don’t know how I kept doing the exercises and writing down the concepts. I was gone … whereabouts unknown. And accompanied.
***
As we were packing up, I was transported back to another group – a three-week wilderness experience in an Outdoor Education course in Alberta, Canada. Two teachers and maybe twenty adult students. We hiked beyond trails, canoed rivers sometimes wild, used our compasses in orienteering exercises to find Point B from Point A.
Some of our time in the mountains was in a group of four. Hypothermia hit some people hard. It may be that the actions of the three of us saved the fourth person’s life.
And the teachers definitely saved my life. What was I doing signing up for a canoe journey and not being able to swim? My partner and I missed our leader’s signal to pull into a riverside campsite, and there I trembled, facing the huge waves of a rapids. “I’m dead.”
We were thrown out of our canoe. I grabbed the gunwale and tried to keep water out of my mouth. And then there were hands, and me trying to breathe on the shore, and a night full of dark dreams.
Back in town, our last day, and a written exam, since this was a university credit course. I remember many of the questions being difficult, and me fretting about failing.
And then …
A 1980 overwhelm. I looked at the faces of young adults furiously writing … and loved them. I was lifted into the stratosphere of Thank you, my beloveds. I remembered all the giving and receiving and blessed my friends of the wilds.
Another period of being gone, of giving thanks for the kindness in us, of wanting all my classmates to be supremely happy.
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