MONK OR MONKEY?
Would you rather be a monk or a monkey? That strange, boldly-voiced question rang in my ears as I awoke with a startle from a dream a few mornings ago. I could make no sense of it, yet could not erase it from my mind, so I began to explore this odd combination of terms, hoping to get some insight into its meaning.
In my dictionary the word monkey immediately follows monk. I note that not only does monk resides in monkey, but also the word key, perhaps an indication that there is some key that I must discover to use to unlock this mysterious communication from my unconscious.
The dictionary defines monk as “a member of a religious community living under certain vows especially of poverty, chastity, and obedience.” A monkey is “any of various mainly long-tailed agile tree-dwelling primates,” or perhaps more to the point, “a mischievous person, especially a child (young monkey).”
My mental image of a monk does not center on poverty, chastity, or obedience, but rather is of a man dressed in a long brown robe, walking, holding a book, thinking about serious and profound matters. He is serene, studious, pragmatic, has a good sense of humor, and is of course deeply religious. He spends a lot of time in silence.
As for monkeys, my first thought is that they are playful, like children. They are active, ebullient, and exhibit what might be called a child-like intelligence. They are particularly fascinating because so much of their behavior mimics our own. Another association is what some Buddhists call “monkey mind,” that restless mental chatter caused by our thoughts as they flit aimlessly from one thing to another. One purpose of meditation is to focus and calm this monkey mind in an effort to create a more serene state of being. In this sense, as I sit in meditation, my inner monkey is striving to be more monk-like.
Yet another association is with the image of three wise monkeys: one with ears covered, Hear no evil; one with eyes covered, See no evil; and the third with mouth covered, Speak no evil. This image is thought to have originated in Japan as part of an ancient folk religion and many versions of it can be seen throughout the Far East. In some cases there is a fourth monkey with his hands tied, meaning Do no evil. This conception of wise monkeys relates directly to the monk; both represent the goal of a life devoid of evil.
So, after these reflections, what am I to make of my strange dream query? Must I choose between the monk and the monkey? I am resistant to choosing, and instead hope to combine characteristics of both these archetypes into my thinking and in my behavior. I aspire to be serious, studious, spiritual, and serene, and continue to enjoy periods of silence, but I also wish to cultivate more of those wonderful child-like monkey qualities, such as playfulness, exuberance, and perhaps a bit of mischievousness. I also wish to be like the three (or four) wise monkeys in avoiding hearing, seeing, speaking, or doing evil.
My lesson from this puzzling but inspiring dream is my intention for the New Year—2011—and that is to live my life devoted to being a monk in monkey’s clothing!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
AN ADDED BLESSING
Last night, after I had posted my blog “Thanksgiving Blessings” and had gone to bed, I suddenly realized that I had failed to mention my most recent blessing—the birth of a great-grandchild. As I pondered this omission I realized that though I have seen baby Noah, it was only when he was still in the hospital incubator. I could not hold him or snuggle him or kiss him. He was tiny and frail and somnolent. So though I have followed his progress with great interest by reading the blog posted by his parents, he is still not quite real to me.
All that will change on December 18 when we come together as a family and I will conduct a ritual welcoming Noah into our family circle. We will talk about our new roles in relationship to him—as grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and in my case as great-grandmother. We will offer advice and support to his parents, Carolyn and Raven; we will express our fondest wishes for this child as he grows up, and then each of us will give our personal blessings to him and his parents.
On that day, in addition to the ceremony, I will finally get to hold Noah, to snuggle him, to press him against my chest, and to lovingly kiss him. On that day he will become real to me, and I can truly say that he is one of the greatest blessings of my old age.
All that will change on December 18 when we come together as a family and I will conduct a ritual welcoming Noah into our family circle. We will talk about our new roles in relationship to him—as grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and in my case as great-grandmother. We will offer advice and support to his parents, Carolyn and Raven; we will express our fondest wishes for this child as he grows up, and then each of us will give our personal blessings to him and his parents.
On that day, in addition to the ceremony, I will finally get to hold Noah, to snuggle him, to press him against my chest, and to lovingly kiss him. On that day he will become real to me, and I can truly say that he is one of the greatest blessings of my old age.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
THANKSGIVING BLESSINGS
There are so many blessings in my life, it is difficult to know where to begin in enumerating them. It is interesting that in my old age I can acknowledge blessings, whereas when I was young, I could only see what was lacking, what deprivations I had endured and how much I suffered because of what I perceived as deficiencies in my upbringing. This is not to say that my childhood was ideal; it certainly was not. We were poor, my mother was terribly depressed because of the handicap (deafness) of my brother, born two years after me, and my father, though unfailingly kind and generous with me, was not able to give my mother the kind of support she needed. There was a lot of tension in the marriage.
And yet, I did well in school, stood out academically in my high school, though I admit there was little competition from my small rural community. Still, I felt proud of my level of accomplishment; being the smartest in the class is not bad, no matter the level of competition. I also took piano and voice lessons—skills which to this day provide me with great pleasure. So, it was not all deprivation. There was considerable substance to my growing up years that it has taken me some time to fully appreciate.
Then there was the blessing of coming to St. Louis, attending Washington University, meeting Norm. What had been up until then extremely limited horizons in my experience, suddenly expanded in amazing ways. Being in a city like St. Louis, away from the confines of a rural Southern Baptist environment was heady, liberating, uplifting. Norm was unlike any man I had ever met before—Jewish, intellectual, arrogant, and yet someone who seemed to find something in me that was appealing. We came from such totally different backgrounds, and yet there was a strong attraction. We almost made it to sixty years of marriage before he died.
Perhaps the greatest blessing of all is the birth of our two daughters. Born only 19 months apart, they grew up in some ways like twins—in the same grade from second grade on—but each found her own way, each developing her own talents and interests and each becoming excellent mothers as well as establishing expertise in a variety of fields. These two women are indeed persons who have developed their own strengths and yet have maintained strong family ties in the process. Jenny is the founder and director of a nonprofit organization, and Laurie has a background in politics and lobbying, and is now the author of a novel, based, of course, on a political theme. Who could have guessed that these two adorable little girls would become such accomplished women?
The men to whom my daughters are married are also great blessings in my life. Each treats me with respect and is unfailingly helpful and kind to me. I am deeply grateful for their attention, their assistance, and their friendship.
But most astonishing of all, perhaps, are my grandchildren. I still feel a large part of myself as a poor, sad little girl living on a farm in North Carolina. It boggles my mind to think that my grandchildren are graduates of prestigious universities, founders of nonprofits, students of art and social work, and all-around marvelous, beautiful, loving human beings. How did I get so blessed? I love each one with all my heart, and I feel lucky every day that I can find so much joy in spending time with each one of them.
I would be remiss if I did not mention the blessing of my friends. I am particularly fortunate in having friends from all age groups. Some are still in their twenties, several in their thirties, many inhabit those middle years of forties and fifties. Then there are those who are closer to my age, and a few who are my actual peers. It is a great privilege for me to have connections with women and men who span so many different age groups. I feel that my relationship with my grandchildren and my young friends infuses me with a kind of energy and vitality that I could not have otherwise. What a great gift they all are to me!
Last, I am blessed by the privilege of being old. I shall be eternally grateful for these later years when I have had the opportunity to look back and reflect on the myriad experiences and relationships that I have had over these eighty-plus years of my life. It has been a long, sometimes challenging journey, and I have had my share of missteps and detours along the way, but I do not, for a moment, regret the trajectory of my life. I rejoice in the years I have had on this earth.
Thank you to all those I love, especially my family: Laurie and Dan, Jenny and Rocky, Carolyn and Raven, Rebecca, Jessie, Rachel and Nick.
Happy Thanksgiving to all!
Mom/Leah/Gaga
And yet, I did well in school, stood out academically in my high school, though I admit there was little competition from my small rural community. Still, I felt proud of my level of accomplishment; being the smartest in the class is not bad, no matter the level of competition. I also took piano and voice lessons—skills which to this day provide me with great pleasure. So, it was not all deprivation. There was considerable substance to my growing up years that it has taken me some time to fully appreciate.
Then there was the blessing of coming to St. Louis, attending Washington University, meeting Norm. What had been up until then extremely limited horizons in my experience, suddenly expanded in amazing ways. Being in a city like St. Louis, away from the confines of a rural Southern Baptist environment was heady, liberating, uplifting. Norm was unlike any man I had ever met before—Jewish, intellectual, arrogant, and yet someone who seemed to find something in me that was appealing. We came from such totally different backgrounds, and yet there was a strong attraction. We almost made it to sixty years of marriage before he died.
Perhaps the greatest blessing of all is the birth of our two daughters. Born only 19 months apart, they grew up in some ways like twins—in the same grade from second grade on—but each found her own way, each developing her own talents and interests and each becoming excellent mothers as well as establishing expertise in a variety of fields. These two women are indeed persons who have developed their own strengths and yet have maintained strong family ties in the process. Jenny is the founder and director of a nonprofit organization, and Laurie has a background in politics and lobbying, and is now the author of a novel, based, of course, on a political theme. Who could have guessed that these two adorable little girls would become such accomplished women?
The men to whom my daughters are married are also great blessings in my life. Each treats me with respect and is unfailingly helpful and kind to me. I am deeply grateful for their attention, their assistance, and their friendship.
But most astonishing of all, perhaps, are my grandchildren. I still feel a large part of myself as a poor, sad little girl living on a farm in North Carolina. It boggles my mind to think that my grandchildren are graduates of prestigious universities, founders of nonprofits, students of art and social work, and all-around marvelous, beautiful, loving human beings. How did I get so blessed? I love each one with all my heart, and I feel lucky every day that I can find so much joy in spending time with each one of them.
I would be remiss if I did not mention the blessing of my friends. I am particularly fortunate in having friends from all age groups. Some are still in their twenties, several in their thirties, many inhabit those middle years of forties and fifties. Then there are those who are closer to my age, and a few who are my actual peers. It is a great privilege for me to have connections with women and men who span so many different age groups. I feel that my relationship with my grandchildren and my young friends infuses me with a kind of energy and vitality that I could not have otherwise. What a great gift they all are to me!
Last, I am blessed by the privilege of being old. I shall be eternally grateful for these later years when I have had the opportunity to look back and reflect on the myriad experiences and relationships that I have had over these eighty-plus years of my life. It has been a long, sometimes challenging journey, and I have had my share of missteps and detours along the way, but I do not, for a moment, regret the trajectory of my life. I rejoice in the years I have had on this earth.
Thank you to all those I love, especially my family: Laurie and Dan, Jenny and Rocky, Carolyn and Raven, Rebecca, Jessie, Rachel and Nick.
Happy Thanksgiving to all!
Mom/Leah/Gaga
Saturday, June 19, 2010
TOMORROW BELONGS TO ME
The sun on the meadow is summery warm,
The stag in the forest runs free;
The heart as a shelter defies the storm,
Tomorrow belongs to me.
The branch of the linden is leafy and green,
The rage has deserted the sea;
The world holds promise that shines unseen,
Tomorrow belongs to me.
The babe in his cradle is soundly asleep,
The blossom embraces the bee;
And love, like a valley, lies wide and deep,
Tomorrow belongs to me,
Tomorrow belongs to me.
The words of this song, Tomorrow Belongs to Me, written by Fred Ebb and John Kander for the musical Cabaret, have recently moved me like nothing else. Perhaps it is because I have, like so many, been deeply depressed about the situation in world, most especially about the appalling oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The permanently imprinted image of oil spewing endlessly into the habitat of one of our most biologically diverse bodies of water affects not just my visual sense, but also impacts my entire body. It makes me feel ill. I can hardly bare to watch it, though it is hard to avoid since it is shown continually on most news shows.
This event has been called by our president (and others) “the worst environmental disaster America has ever faced,” though a recent story in the New York Times questions that pronouncement. There have been other horrendous happenings which we tend to forget. One is the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Just as this spill seems to have taken place because of a lack of proper safety procedures, the Dust Bowl occurred due to poor farming practices and lack of good stewardship over our earth. Farmers in the early 1900s heedlessly removed most of the prairie grasses which helped hold much needed moisture. When a severe drought occurred in the 1930s, the soil, with nothing to hold it down, swirled into massive storms, obliterating everything in its path, choking livestock, and causing serious respiratory illnesses in those exposed to the dust. It is reported that by 1940 more than two million people had left their homes in the Great Plains States. The effects of the Dust Bowl lasted for more than ten years.
We do not know yet the extent of the disaster in the Gulf region—how many humans and animals and how much aquatic life will be affected, either directly due to toxic exposure to the oil, or indirectly due to economic deprivation because of the destruction of fishing grounds and loss of income from tourist trade and other business failures. It seems certain that the effects of this monstrous spill will be around for a very long time.
And yet I find that putting this event into historic perspective gives me some hope. One advantage of living a long time—eighty-plus years in my case—is that one does get a deeper sense of the resiliency of our earth and its people. I do not mean to diminish the suffering of those individuals whose lives have been upended by this oil spill, any more than I deny the upheaval and misery of those families caught up in the Dust Bowl, but it is somehow reassuring to know that our country and our planet have endured countless disasters, and our species has demonstrated over and over again that we can survive seemingly overwhelming threats. Life does go on.
So, I find some comfort in the words of this song. I like the idea that tomorrow belongs to me, that I can find something of hope, and beauty, and love if I choose to focus on those thoughts. I am especially touched by the last verse of the song, since it refers to “the babe in his cradle.” As you all know, in the fall our family will welcome a new baby, my first great-grandchild. I wish to feel that this child—to be named Noah, like the Biblical Noah who saw a newly refreshed world after the flood—will be born into a world that, in spite of its catastrophes, finds a way to right itself—a world that “holds promise that shines unseen” and that he will find reason to embrace his life with joy and optimism. It is my hope that he will know “summery warm,” the “leafy and green” of the trees and many other pleasures of life, family, and nature. Of one thing I am absolutely certain: that our Noah will always be aware that from his family “love, like a valley, lies wide and deep.”
The stag in the forest runs free;
The heart as a shelter defies the storm,
Tomorrow belongs to me.
The branch of the linden is leafy and green,
The rage has deserted the sea;
The world holds promise that shines unseen,
Tomorrow belongs to me.
The babe in his cradle is soundly asleep,
The blossom embraces the bee;
And love, like a valley, lies wide and deep,
Tomorrow belongs to me,
Tomorrow belongs to me.
The words of this song, Tomorrow Belongs to Me, written by Fred Ebb and John Kander for the musical Cabaret, have recently moved me like nothing else. Perhaps it is because I have, like so many, been deeply depressed about the situation in world, most especially about the appalling oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The permanently imprinted image of oil spewing endlessly into the habitat of one of our most biologically diverse bodies of water affects not just my visual sense, but also impacts my entire body. It makes me feel ill. I can hardly bare to watch it, though it is hard to avoid since it is shown continually on most news shows.
This event has been called by our president (and others) “the worst environmental disaster America has ever faced,” though a recent story in the New York Times questions that pronouncement. There have been other horrendous happenings which we tend to forget. One is the Dust Bowl of the 1930s. Just as this spill seems to have taken place because of a lack of proper safety procedures, the Dust Bowl occurred due to poor farming practices and lack of good stewardship over our earth. Farmers in the early 1900s heedlessly removed most of the prairie grasses which helped hold much needed moisture. When a severe drought occurred in the 1930s, the soil, with nothing to hold it down, swirled into massive storms, obliterating everything in its path, choking livestock, and causing serious respiratory illnesses in those exposed to the dust. It is reported that by 1940 more than two million people had left their homes in the Great Plains States. The effects of the Dust Bowl lasted for more than ten years.
We do not know yet the extent of the disaster in the Gulf region—how many humans and animals and how much aquatic life will be affected, either directly due to toxic exposure to the oil, or indirectly due to economic deprivation because of the destruction of fishing grounds and loss of income from tourist trade and other business failures. It seems certain that the effects of this monstrous spill will be around for a very long time.
And yet I find that putting this event into historic perspective gives me some hope. One advantage of living a long time—eighty-plus years in my case—is that one does get a deeper sense of the resiliency of our earth and its people. I do not mean to diminish the suffering of those individuals whose lives have been upended by this oil spill, any more than I deny the upheaval and misery of those families caught up in the Dust Bowl, but it is somehow reassuring to know that our country and our planet have endured countless disasters, and our species has demonstrated over and over again that we can survive seemingly overwhelming threats. Life does go on.
So, I find some comfort in the words of this song. I like the idea that tomorrow belongs to me, that I can find something of hope, and beauty, and love if I choose to focus on those thoughts. I am especially touched by the last verse of the song, since it refers to “the babe in his cradle.” As you all know, in the fall our family will welcome a new baby, my first great-grandchild. I wish to feel that this child—to be named Noah, like the Biblical Noah who saw a newly refreshed world after the flood—will be born into a world that, in spite of its catastrophes, finds a way to right itself—a world that “holds promise that shines unseen” and that he will find reason to embrace his life with joy and optimism. It is my hope that he will know “summery warm,” the “leafy and green” of the trees and many other pleasures of life, family, and nature. Of one thing I am absolutely certain: that our Noah will always be aware that from his family “love, like a valley, lies wide and deep.”
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I WOULDN'T CHANGE A THING
Last evening as I sat out in my garden reflecting on my life, an extraordinary thought popped into my head: If I had it all to do over, I wouldn’t change a thing. What?! After all the mistakes I have made, the hurts I have inflicted, the pain I have endured, the sorrows I have suffered, why would I not want to change any of that? The thought makes no logical sense. And yet, there it is, real and present and persistent. How can one explain such an irrational rumination?
Then another insight arose: All those experiences, whether good, bad, indifferent, remarkable, silly, smart, stupid, provocative, horrendous, marvelous, painful, joyful, or just plain satisfying, have made me who I am. So, I suppose one explanation is that I would not sacrifice my basic personality for one that might have been more perspicacious, more brilliant, or—and this is hard to admit—more caring. There is something odd, something absurd, about being so invested in the wholeness of who I am and the totality of the life I have led. And yet, again, there it is. Is this an overweening ego?
Perhaps it is not just a question of ego, but rather a sense of having lived out some kind of pre-ordained destiny. It is as if some seed within me knew just what kind of human being I would—or could—become. I do not know how that happened, but I do know that, raised on a farm in North Carolina, I somehow felt from an early age that my life would not be lived in that environment. I ended up in St. Louis, Missouri, married to a radical intellectual Jewish man—something about as far from my rural Southern Baptist roots as could be imagined.
How did that seed, which seems so alien to my background, get implanted? I have no idea, for it does not appear to have come from my parents, who were opposed to almost all my choices and my decisions. I had to leave my home so that kernel could germinate and grow into the person I have become. It has not always been an easy process—separating from my family at age eighteen was one of the early sacrifices. I see the arc of my life as a slow unfolding of my authentic personhood, and my behavior as an effort to nurture that often fragile, sometimes stunted, seedling self, a task that continues into my old age. I feel that I am still exploring and still learning from the course of my own maturation, with all its stops and starts, pains and pleasures. Just as a plant grows due to the nutrients in the soil, to water and available sunlight, so I have unfolded in response to all my life experiences and to all those who have been close to me.
I have the weird feeling that all along my future was pulling me forward, that there was some path already designated, or at least suggested, that I was destined to follow. If this seems to deny the feeling we all have of free will, then it occurs to me that perhaps I could have denied or ignored that pull, could have acquiesced to the wishes of my parents, could have remained within the confines of that life in North Carolina. But for some reason I did not. I shall be forever thankful that I chose otherwise, for my life has been richly satisfying.
So, at this late stage of my life, I have a deep sense of gratitude for whatever life force has guided me thus far. As I approach these final years of my life, I rejoice in the life I have lived.
I would not change a thing.
Then another insight arose: All those experiences, whether good, bad, indifferent, remarkable, silly, smart, stupid, provocative, horrendous, marvelous, painful, joyful, or just plain satisfying, have made me who I am. So, I suppose one explanation is that I would not sacrifice my basic personality for one that might have been more perspicacious, more brilliant, or—and this is hard to admit—more caring. There is something odd, something absurd, about being so invested in the wholeness of who I am and the totality of the life I have led. And yet, again, there it is. Is this an overweening ego?
Perhaps it is not just a question of ego, but rather a sense of having lived out some kind of pre-ordained destiny. It is as if some seed within me knew just what kind of human being I would—or could—become. I do not know how that happened, but I do know that, raised on a farm in North Carolina, I somehow felt from an early age that my life would not be lived in that environment. I ended up in St. Louis, Missouri, married to a radical intellectual Jewish man—something about as far from my rural Southern Baptist roots as could be imagined.
How did that seed, which seems so alien to my background, get implanted? I have no idea, for it does not appear to have come from my parents, who were opposed to almost all my choices and my decisions. I had to leave my home so that kernel could germinate and grow into the person I have become. It has not always been an easy process—separating from my family at age eighteen was one of the early sacrifices. I see the arc of my life as a slow unfolding of my authentic personhood, and my behavior as an effort to nurture that often fragile, sometimes stunted, seedling self, a task that continues into my old age. I feel that I am still exploring and still learning from the course of my own maturation, with all its stops and starts, pains and pleasures. Just as a plant grows due to the nutrients in the soil, to water and available sunlight, so I have unfolded in response to all my life experiences and to all those who have been close to me.
I have the weird feeling that all along my future was pulling me forward, that there was some path already designated, or at least suggested, that I was destined to follow. If this seems to deny the feeling we all have of free will, then it occurs to me that perhaps I could have denied or ignored that pull, could have acquiesced to the wishes of my parents, could have remained within the confines of that life in North Carolina. But for some reason I did not. I shall be forever thankful that I chose otherwise, for my life has been richly satisfying.
So, at this late stage of my life, I have a deep sense of gratitude for whatever life force has guided me thus far. As I approach these final years of my life, I rejoice in the life I have lived.
I would not change a thing.
Monday, April 5, 2010
SINGING GOSPEL SONGS
Recently I attended a performance by Harold Allen, who during the course of the evening told stories and sang songs demonstrating each stage of his musical education—from art songs to arias to numbers from musical theater. He then said that when he began composing and singing his own pieces, he found himself using the genre of country music. Allen did not explain what brought about this transition in his musical focus, but I would have been interested in hearing what he had to say, for I find myself in a somewhat similar situation. (Though I am not a performer; I sing only for my own personal enjoyment.) Now that I have begun singing again—more than sixty years since I last took voice lessons—I find myself mysteriously, but inexorably, drawn to gospel music. I wonder why this is so.
Gospel music is definitively Christian, but I am not a follower of that faith, even though I was brought up in a Southern Baptist family and regularly attended a small rural church in North Carolina. When I was in high school and was studying voice, I frequently sang in that church—sometimes as soloist, but often as a member of a trio formed with two other young girls. So I was steeped in the sounds and harmonies of gospel music from an early age. When I went away to college I left that life and that church behind. I married a non-religious Jewish man, and felt a strong affinity for the values articulated by my husband and his family. I also am interested in Buddhism and its precepts. However, I think of myself as an agnostic, forever questioning, always exploring, but never fully persuaded by the answers offered to ultimate religious queries.
I left high school a year early and attended a junior college where I continued my vocal studies. Most voice majors gave a recital at the end of their second year at the school, but since I would not be staying for that year, my teacher encouraged me to do a recital at the end of my one year at the school. I have lost all copies of the printed program for that recital, but it included several art songs, some in English, others in German, and at least one aria, “Connais-tu le pays” from Mignon by Ambroise Thomas. (I recently read that that song was at one time “done to death” here in the U.S, both by concert singers and amateurs, which perhaps explains why it was on my program.)
Later, long after I abandoned my musical studies and had started a family, I delighted in singing with my young daughters—wonderful, playful songs: Looby Lou, Little Red Wagon, Mulberry Bush, and many others. We sang wherever and whenever we happened to be—especially in the car on long trips. I borrowed records of Pete Seeger from the library and we sang along with him. Once the girls started school we purchased a piano and continued to sing folk songs, for they were growing up during the sixties—the era not only of the Beatles, but also of Theodore Bikel and the Weavers.
Once the children left home I mostly stopped singing. I turned my energies and interests in other directions; first teaching at a school for the deaf, then becoming a photographer and later at age sixty-nine going back to school for a Ph.D. These were deeply satisfying creative and intellectual endeavors, but recently I have begun singing again, and though I still love the old folk songs, it is gospel music that has captured my heart. This is true even though a part of me resists the beliefs and sentiments expressed by many of the lyrics. How can I, given my skeptic’s stance, find emotional resonance with such profoundly professed love of Jesus? How can I not only tolerate, but actually connect with, the worshipful attitude that is an essential aspect of these tunes? How can I reconcile my fundamental agnosticism with my great pleasure in singing these fundamentally Christian songs? Why am I so drawn to them? They are, most obviously, simple melodies often based on old folk tunes, with a chorus repeated after each verse, and with a limited vocal range, all of which make them easy to remember and easy to sing. They are accessible to anyone who has a musical ear; no training is necessary. Still, I could have decided to return to my study of art songs, or other classical pieces, instead of to these hymns and spirituals. To help find an answer to these questions, I began a careful examination of the lyrics to see what they might reveal.
The first thing I noticed is that many of the songs are about love. Take, for example, the chorus of In the Garden: “And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, None other has ever known.” Those words could be about any loving couple meeting for a tryst, even though the verse tells us “I come to the garden alone, While the dew is still on the roses…” I find this imagery quite beautiful and decidedly romantic.
Here is another example: What Wondrous Love Is This, the beginning words of which are “What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul! What wondrous love is this, O my soul!” And this from O, How I love Jesus: “There is a name I love to hear, I love to sing its worth; It sounds like music in my ear, The sweetest name on earth. O, how I love Jesus, O, how I love Jesus, O, how I love Jesus—Because he first loved me.” I could imagine singing that to a lover, substituting his name for that of Jesus. Passionately proclaimed love is something I can certainly relate to.
There is another theme frequently found in gospel music—that of sin and suffering. I am not sure what constitutes sin (in my youth it was, among other things, cursing or drinking alcohol), but I do know what it is to make mistakes and to do harm, and I also know something about sorrow and suffering, so some of these lyrics strike a chord within me. Take this one: Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy, which begins with the words “Come, ye sinners, poor and needy, Weak and wounded, sick and sore; Jesus ready stands to save you, Full of pity, love, and pow’r.” And we all know the beloved lyrics, “Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind, but now I see.”
Then there are the songs of hope, most notably Whispering Hope, which does not mention Jesus or God in its first stanza or in the chorus, but does offer solace and optimism: “Soft as the voice of an angel, Breathing a lesson unheard, Hope with a gentle persuasion Whispers her comforting word: Wait till the darkness is over, Wait till the tempest is done, Hope for the sunshine tomorrow, After the shower is gone. Whispering hope, Oh how welcome thy voice. Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.” Who among us cannot relate to such soothing and reassuring words?
Here are some other lyrics that are inspiring and uplifting in their affirmation of life: “Sing them over again to me, Wonderful words of Life; Let me more of their beauty see, Wonderful words of Life. Words of life and beauty, Teach me faith and duty: Beautiful words, wonderful words, Wonderful words of Life. Beautiful words, wonderful words, Wonderful words of Life.” Then this reminder to be thankful from the chorus of Count Your Blessings: “Count your blessings, name them one by one; Count your blessings, see what God hath done. Count your blessings, name them one by one; Count your blessings, see what God hath done.”
There are other themes as well, such as redemption (Saved! Saved!), the importance of prayer (Sweet Hour of Prayer), praise (Glory to His Name), the significance of the cross (Near the Cross) plus the fascinating and frequent use of water metaphors: There Is a Fountain; Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing; Are You Washed in the Blood? and Shall We Gather at the River. (I am tempted to write an entire essay on the mythical and religious significance of water.)
There must be a reason beyond their literal messages and musical simplicity that makes these songs so captivating for someone like me. Perhaps it is that in calling on Jesus, I am, in a sense, addressing the higher self that resides within my own psyche. The Jesus who receives, welcomes, embraces, redeems, shelters, cleanses, blesses, and also forgives our gravest transgressions might represent that part of us which embodies our highest aspirations and yearnings, that aspect which characterizes the best of who we are or wish to be. As I sing these tunes with sincere and soulful fervor, perhaps I am expressing a desire to find, recognize, and honor those qualities of love and acceptance and forgiveness that I strive to develop within myself. If so, I can understand why these simple songs give me such great pleasure.
C. G. Jung, in Memories, Dreams, Reflections, describes the self as being “the principle and archetype of orientation and meaning,” and goes on to say that “Therein lies its healing function.” He illustrates the self as both the center point and the outer circle which contains all aspects of the personality. According to Jung, we are driven by this central core of our being to become who we truly are. In other places I have written about the trauma of my baptism at age nine, how fraudulent and disillusioned I felt as a result of that experience. It occurs to me that in returning to the music I encountered in my formative years, I am bringing back into the circle of my life some psychological meaning that I had discarded or ignored. Perhaps in opening my heart to these old melodies, I am healing some of the wounds from my childhood. And that is a good thing.
Note: With the exception of In the Garden, which is from The Broadman Hymnal, all songs mentioned are from Smoky Mountain Sunday: 40 Favorite Hymns and Gospel Songs, Nashville, TN: Shawnee Press, Inc. 2008.
Gospel music is definitively Christian, but I am not a follower of that faith, even though I was brought up in a Southern Baptist family and regularly attended a small rural church in North Carolina. When I was in high school and was studying voice, I frequently sang in that church—sometimes as soloist, but often as a member of a trio formed with two other young girls. So I was steeped in the sounds and harmonies of gospel music from an early age. When I went away to college I left that life and that church behind. I married a non-religious Jewish man, and felt a strong affinity for the values articulated by my husband and his family. I also am interested in Buddhism and its precepts. However, I think of myself as an agnostic, forever questioning, always exploring, but never fully persuaded by the answers offered to ultimate religious queries.
I left high school a year early and attended a junior college where I continued my vocal studies. Most voice majors gave a recital at the end of their second year at the school, but since I would not be staying for that year, my teacher encouraged me to do a recital at the end of my one year at the school. I have lost all copies of the printed program for that recital, but it included several art songs, some in English, others in German, and at least one aria, “Connais-tu le pays” from Mignon by Ambroise Thomas. (I recently read that that song was at one time “done to death” here in the U.S, both by concert singers and amateurs, which perhaps explains why it was on my program.)
Later, long after I abandoned my musical studies and had started a family, I delighted in singing with my young daughters—wonderful, playful songs: Looby Lou, Little Red Wagon, Mulberry Bush, and many others. We sang wherever and whenever we happened to be—especially in the car on long trips. I borrowed records of Pete Seeger from the library and we sang along with him. Once the girls started school we purchased a piano and continued to sing folk songs, for they were growing up during the sixties—the era not only of the Beatles, but also of Theodore Bikel and the Weavers.
Once the children left home I mostly stopped singing. I turned my energies and interests in other directions; first teaching at a school for the deaf, then becoming a photographer and later at age sixty-nine going back to school for a Ph.D. These were deeply satisfying creative and intellectual endeavors, but recently I have begun singing again, and though I still love the old folk songs, it is gospel music that has captured my heart. This is true even though a part of me resists the beliefs and sentiments expressed by many of the lyrics. How can I, given my skeptic’s stance, find emotional resonance with such profoundly professed love of Jesus? How can I not only tolerate, but actually connect with, the worshipful attitude that is an essential aspect of these tunes? How can I reconcile my fundamental agnosticism with my great pleasure in singing these fundamentally Christian songs? Why am I so drawn to them? They are, most obviously, simple melodies often based on old folk tunes, with a chorus repeated after each verse, and with a limited vocal range, all of which make them easy to remember and easy to sing. They are accessible to anyone who has a musical ear; no training is necessary. Still, I could have decided to return to my study of art songs, or other classical pieces, instead of to these hymns and spirituals. To help find an answer to these questions, I began a careful examination of the lyrics to see what they might reveal.
The first thing I noticed is that many of the songs are about love. Take, for example, the chorus of In the Garden: “And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, None other has ever known.” Those words could be about any loving couple meeting for a tryst, even though the verse tells us “I come to the garden alone, While the dew is still on the roses…” I find this imagery quite beautiful and decidedly romantic.
Here is another example: What Wondrous Love Is This, the beginning words of which are “What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul! What wondrous love is this, O my soul!” And this from O, How I love Jesus: “There is a name I love to hear, I love to sing its worth; It sounds like music in my ear, The sweetest name on earth. O, how I love Jesus, O, how I love Jesus, O, how I love Jesus—Because he first loved me.” I could imagine singing that to a lover, substituting his name for that of Jesus. Passionately proclaimed love is something I can certainly relate to.
There is another theme frequently found in gospel music—that of sin and suffering. I am not sure what constitutes sin (in my youth it was, among other things, cursing or drinking alcohol), but I do know what it is to make mistakes and to do harm, and I also know something about sorrow and suffering, so some of these lyrics strike a chord within me. Take this one: Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy, which begins with the words “Come, ye sinners, poor and needy, Weak and wounded, sick and sore; Jesus ready stands to save you, Full of pity, love, and pow’r.” And we all know the beloved lyrics, “Amazing Grace! How sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found, Was blind, but now I see.”
Then there are the songs of hope, most notably Whispering Hope, which does not mention Jesus or God in its first stanza or in the chorus, but does offer solace and optimism: “Soft as the voice of an angel, Breathing a lesson unheard, Hope with a gentle persuasion Whispers her comforting word: Wait till the darkness is over, Wait till the tempest is done, Hope for the sunshine tomorrow, After the shower is gone. Whispering hope, Oh how welcome thy voice. Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice.” Who among us cannot relate to such soothing and reassuring words?
Here are some other lyrics that are inspiring and uplifting in their affirmation of life: “Sing them over again to me, Wonderful words of Life; Let me more of their beauty see, Wonderful words of Life. Words of life and beauty, Teach me faith and duty: Beautiful words, wonderful words, Wonderful words of Life. Beautiful words, wonderful words, Wonderful words of Life.” Then this reminder to be thankful from the chorus of Count Your Blessings: “Count your blessings, name them one by one; Count your blessings, see what God hath done. Count your blessings, name them one by one; Count your blessings, see what God hath done.”
There are other themes as well, such as redemption (Saved! Saved!), the importance of prayer (Sweet Hour of Prayer), praise (Glory to His Name), the significance of the cross (Near the Cross) plus the fascinating and frequent use of water metaphors: There Is a Fountain; Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing; Are You Washed in the Blood? and Shall We Gather at the River. (I am tempted to write an entire essay on the mythical and religious significance of water.)
There must be a reason beyond their literal messages and musical simplicity that makes these songs so captivating for someone like me. Perhaps it is that in calling on Jesus, I am, in a sense, addressing the higher self that resides within my own psyche. The Jesus who receives, welcomes, embraces, redeems, shelters, cleanses, blesses, and also forgives our gravest transgressions might represent that part of us which embodies our highest aspirations and yearnings, that aspect which characterizes the best of who we are or wish to be. As I sing these tunes with sincere and soulful fervor, perhaps I am expressing a desire to find, recognize, and honor those qualities of love and acceptance and forgiveness that I strive to develop within myself. If so, I can understand why these simple songs give me such great pleasure.
C. G. Jung, in Memories, Dreams, Reflections, describes the self as being “the principle and archetype of orientation and meaning,” and goes on to say that “Therein lies its healing function.” He illustrates the self as both the center point and the outer circle which contains all aspects of the personality. According to Jung, we are driven by this central core of our being to become who we truly are. In other places I have written about the trauma of my baptism at age nine, how fraudulent and disillusioned I felt as a result of that experience. It occurs to me that in returning to the music I encountered in my formative years, I am bringing back into the circle of my life some psychological meaning that I had discarded or ignored. Perhaps in opening my heart to these old melodies, I am healing some of the wounds from my childhood. And that is a good thing.
Note: With the exception of In the Garden, which is from The Broadman Hymnal, all songs mentioned are from Smoky Mountain Sunday: 40 Favorite Hymns and Gospel Songs, Nashville, TN: Shawnee Press, Inc. 2008.
Monday, March 29, 2010
AN ANNIVERSARY
Today marks the second anniversary of Norm’s death. Last night I lay thinking of that night two years ago when we surrounded his bed, hands joined, speaking to him of our love, singing to him, and bidding him goodbye. Those thoughts crowded out any hope of immediate sleep. Finally, though, I drifted off, hoping for a dream visit, but none came. This morning my heart lies heavy in my chest, my breathing is labored and uneven, and my eyes threaten to spill tears. Before breakfast I lit a memorial candle, which will burn for 24 hours, a flame to remind me of the passion we shared during our six decades together, a passion that was often a blessing, but, I must admit, was also occasionally a curse. Our relationship was complex and intense.
My sorrow seems greater now than it did a year ago. I am not sure why that should be. Perhaps then I was still immersed in the mental fog and fatigue that is characteristic of grief and only now am emerging into a full realization of my status as widow. As with most situations, this new role has both positive and negative aspects. The negatives are perhaps most obvious. I must make all household decisions, though I had to do that for many years before he died since his mental faculties had slowly slipped away, and I do not find those decisions difficult.
Of more consequence is that I do not have a companion for cultural and social events. Going to a museum or a movie or a concert is not nearly as much fun when done alone. I am blessed to have Laura and Dan with whom I share theater tickets, and am grateful to my neighbors the Zuckers with whom I go to productions of the St. Louis Opera Theater, but I probably would take advantage of more events if Norm were still alive. Now that I have said that, however, I am not sure it is correct. Norm was not really interested in art or music; he was a man of ideas and intellect. And that brings up another, deeper sorrow: I cannot truly remember what Norm was like. It breaks my heart to admit that, but it is true. He faded away over so many years—a full decade before his death—that I have lost any reliable memory of who that pre-Alzheimer’s person was. But whoever he was, I shared my entire adult life with him, and I miss him.
Though it seems appropriate to focus on loss, there are also gains that need to be acknowledged as a result of his passing. One great gift of this past year is that my granddaughter Rebecca moved in with me, something that probably would not have happened if Norm were still alive and at home. Though she travels a great deal, having her here at least some of the time fills this usually empty house with youthful enthusiasm and activity. I am grateful that this arrangement seems to suit both our needs at the moment.
Over the past two years I also have discovered new strengths and have returned to old interests. I have traveled widely—twice to Europe last year—and that is something Norm would not have enjoyed, whereas I loved sharing those adventures with my family. I found that my energy for walking and climbing far exceeded my expectations, a delightful discovery! I also have traveled within the U.S., visiting grandchildren and friends whenever the mood arose, the most recent trip being a spa vacation with granddaughter Jessica. Next month I shall visit grandson Nicholas in New York City where I shall be joined by all my other grandchildren (except for Rachel who has other commitments). These occasions fill my heart with joy, and being in the presence of these young people rejuvenates me, as if I have been given a shot of adrenaline.
I have returned to my love of singing, and am enjoying studying voice. I find time each day to sit down at the piano—mostly when I am in the house alone, for I still do not feel comfortable having others around—to belt out my favorite folk and gospel tunes. These times give me great pleasure, for they are a reminder of the days when I used to sing with my children.
So, my life is full in ways I could not have dreamed of when Norm died. I feel as if I am awakening, stretching, unfolding, emerging into a whole new stage of life as I grow further into my eighties. The past two years have been, in one strange sense, a liberation. Freed of my caregiving responsibilities, I have had the opportunity to explore new ways of being. I have been able to recognize, or develop, other roles, some of which might not have occurred to me earlier. I have lectured, I have written essays, and as a result I have a deeper sense of my own intellectual ability. No longer a wife, I am more secure in my separate identity. I have even opened my own page on Facebook.
There is one new role for which I am now most happily preparing—that of great-grandmother. My granddaughter Carolyn and her husband Raven are expecting a baby in early fall, and needless to say, we are all thrilled. As I have mentioned in my writings, I did not have a grandmother as I was growing up, and certainly not a great-grandmother, so once again I must invent how I am to live into this most awe-inspiring position. What a glorious challenge that will be! I hope to be around enough years to watch this child grow and develop as a fourth generation is added to our family.
So, today is a day of mixed emotions: sadness for what has been lost, pleasure for what has been gained, and great happiness for what is to be.
My sorrow seems greater now than it did a year ago. I am not sure why that should be. Perhaps then I was still immersed in the mental fog and fatigue that is characteristic of grief and only now am emerging into a full realization of my status as widow. As with most situations, this new role has both positive and negative aspects. The negatives are perhaps most obvious. I must make all household decisions, though I had to do that for many years before he died since his mental faculties had slowly slipped away, and I do not find those decisions difficult.
Of more consequence is that I do not have a companion for cultural and social events. Going to a museum or a movie or a concert is not nearly as much fun when done alone. I am blessed to have Laura and Dan with whom I share theater tickets, and am grateful to my neighbors the Zuckers with whom I go to productions of the St. Louis Opera Theater, but I probably would take advantage of more events if Norm were still alive. Now that I have said that, however, I am not sure it is correct. Norm was not really interested in art or music; he was a man of ideas and intellect. And that brings up another, deeper sorrow: I cannot truly remember what Norm was like. It breaks my heart to admit that, but it is true. He faded away over so many years—a full decade before his death—that I have lost any reliable memory of who that pre-Alzheimer’s person was. But whoever he was, I shared my entire adult life with him, and I miss him.
Though it seems appropriate to focus on loss, there are also gains that need to be acknowledged as a result of his passing. One great gift of this past year is that my granddaughter Rebecca moved in with me, something that probably would not have happened if Norm were still alive and at home. Though she travels a great deal, having her here at least some of the time fills this usually empty house with youthful enthusiasm and activity. I am grateful that this arrangement seems to suit both our needs at the moment.
Over the past two years I also have discovered new strengths and have returned to old interests. I have traveled widely—twice to Europe last year—and that is something Norm would not have enjoyed, whereas I loved sharing those adventures with my family. I found that my energy for walking and climbing far exceeded my expectations, a delightful discovery! I also have traveled within the U.S., visiting grandchildren and friends whenever the mood arose, the most recent trip being a spa vacation with granddaughter Jessica. Next month I shall visit grandson Nicholas in New York City where I shall be joined by all my other grandchildren (except for Rachel who has other commitments). These occasions fill my heart with joy, and being in the presence of these young people rejuvenates me, as if I have been given a shot of adrenaline.
I have returned to my love of singing, and am enjoying studying voice. I find time each day to sit down at the piano—mostly when I am in the house alone, for I still do not feel comfortable having others around—to belt out my favorite folk and gospel tunes. These times give me great pleasure, for they are a reminder of the days when I used to sing with my children.
So, my life is full in ways I could not have dreamed of when Norm died. I feel as if I am awakening, stretching, unfolding, emerging into a whole new stage of life as I grow further into my eighties. The past two years have been, in one strange sense, a liberation. Freed of my caregiving responsibilities, I have had the opportunity to explore new ways of being. I have been able to recognize, or develop, other roles, some of which might not have occurred to me earlier. I have lectured, I have written essays, and as a result I have a deeper sense of my own intellectual ability. No longer a wife, I am more secure in my separate identity. I have even opened my own page on Facebook.
There is one new role for which I am now most happily preparing—that of great-grandmother. My granddaughter Carolyn and her husband Raven are expecting a baby in early fall, and needless to say, we are all thrilled. As I have mentioned in my writings, I did not have a grandmother as I was growing up, and certainly not a great-grandmother, so once again I must invent how I am to live into this most awe-inspiring position. What a glorious challenge that will be! I hope to be around enough years to watch this child grow and develop as a fourth generation is added to our family.
So, today is a day of mixed emotions: sadness for what has been lost, pleasure for what has been gained, and great happiness for what is to be.
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