I've been fascinated with St. Francis of Assisi since I was a kid, when I first learned of his kindness to animals. If I'd be born in the right time and place, I'm sure my life would be devoted to a religious order that seeks to protect animals.
Francis has some wonderful quotes that reflect an appealing gentleness of spirit. Today I'm thinking of this one:
"O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek...
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love."
If every single person in the world did this, imagine how quickly peace would settle on us! It means pushing our eyes up from the record of hurt and dashed hopes we keep like an open book in front of us; it means making our bodies still, listening with a calm spirit.
This song is about the frustration felt when surrounded by others' needs, the surrender of acknowledging "I could easily be you."
What am I supposed to do?
There are too many of you
too many of you…
Yet sometimes I look you in the eye
and say that I too am human
I could easily be you…
You know we all hover between apathy and compassion
We fill up all our days with so much distraction
It makes it easier not to see what we don't want to
But we all live here
We all live here
We all live lonely
Traveling to England is something I've wanted to do for a long time. Along with majoring in English and possessing a robust appreciation of British film and TV, my adolescent crush on New Wave music spawned a tentacle-waving Kraken that locks onto tasty morsels of song at every opportunity...especially those palate-pleasing English tunes. In June, I finally got the chance to go to London (and see two very kind friends who took me all over the place!).
The music obsessed can spend a great deal of time lamenting the strange reality that no one quite understands the music they hold so dear, and I'm not one to enjoy the fact that many of the artists I like are either unknown or considered weird. This mega-group-U2 loving woman would be down with the world loving Yoko Ono. Unlikely to happen, but at least people know who Yoko is. What a pleasure then to share this scrap from my travel journal:
"So cool to be in a country where you can hear PJ [Harvey] on the radio, Is This Desire? blaring out of a record store in Brighton. ROCK ON ENGLAND! I am Anglo. Even at the Little Chef I heard 70s David Bowie, New Order on every commercial, The Cure for kicks...YEAH! Yeah! Yeah!"
I wrote that on the plane on the way back, slightly delirious, part of my enthusiasm stemming from being able to claim a piece of my heritage. I've long said I was "white" or "Caucasian", but thanks to the awesome group of students I got to teach last year, the fabulous discussions we had about race/identity, and guest speaker Jim Garcia, I realized that those descriptions don't actually communicate anything about who I am. Finally going to a country whose art has meant so much to me, and whose genetics I contain, embracing that I am Anglo felt clarifying and true.
Of course, the hunger isn't satiated. I can't wait to go return to England!
How do we know the difference in our lives between story threads that are going to be dropped, and those strange, mystical instants when a little detail, a golden moment stands out in the text?
I have selected cheesy 80s pop tunes to accompany three auspicious plot developments in my life. What's better than the obviously-not-really-stringed-instrument synths, the ensemble super-songs, the soundtracks, the tender vulnerability, and the bordering-on-naive lyrics of the 80s to represent the awe a person can feel when they reflect on the twisty root systems that have somehow led to the blossoming now?
As a gawky teen, I'd flip through my textured, brown photo album, peer at the faces of my classmates, and fiddle with the sticky cellophane just to hear the noise it made as I peeled it back. While scrutinizing how each of us were placed on those fuzzy choral risers, I counted the years I'd known each kid. Much to my chagrin, I was usually the tallest. These days I think the wide-banged kid-mullet I sported at the end of grade school is more disturbing.
The first page of that photo album was the class picture of Our Redeemer Lutheran preschool class of '85. This class 8x10 was different because each person had their own photo. It was the year my mom foolishly gave me an eye-stinging home-perm that is responsible for my continuing aversion to the notion of curls; while scanning the page, I'd often confuse my picture with another curly-haired girl in my class. That is the same picture I saw of my sister-in-law when I first visited her home. When I met Ana again-- for what I thought was the first time-- I recall looking out from behind the one-hour-film counter from my position at cash register one, and the immediate warmth expressed in her gesture of hello signaled to me that this was a person I was going to love.
This one's for you, hermana ;)
Much art has been created to explore the small choices that alter people's lives; I think of the sunny June, end-of-8th-grade-band-trip that hooked this F Hornist and that trumpeter together like Construx as we went from middle to high school. Walking that mile back to school side-by-side with my fiery, ambitious Angie changed my life.
Love you, friend!
Ryan and I have been together a long time, married almost nine years, long enough that people don't frequently ask us how we met. Most times I just say that we both worked in Fred Meyer Photo Electronics, but here is the truth: a young Colleen, while being cash-register trained, saw Ryan saunter by in hounds-tooth pants and spent a moment in cosmic drool mode, thinking a thought very unlike any she'd had before, that she would make this man hers.
And then the moment passed. I spent a year alternately pining and second guessing before my quarry succumbed to love for me.
Ryancito, this one's for you!
And, as the 80s labor to regain their street cred, I hope the sentiments that defined so many songs and films of the era-- the pressing into the moment, the overly-romantic longing, the searching for eternity in the gaze of another, and the ache for human connection-- return in full force, because 80s pop is the type of refined sugar that really does a body good.
I'm a Quaker. This is often easier than saying, "I'm a Christian" because the C-word has developed a number of negative connotations over the last couple millennium...I'm sure you know what I'm talking about: hatred, bigotry, alienation, unflagging dogma...all those things Jesus didn't like so much, and got in a lot of trouble for avoiding and condemning through his actions. Christianity, in many communities, has become embroiled in owning "right," and making sure others know they are firmly "wrong." I want to separate myself from judgment, focus my energy on loving, make sure I am living, acting, and thinking a manner Jesus would like (I'd hesitate at the idea of guessing my batting average).
As a music and word lover, I've found myself uncomfortable with conventional Christian music. I don't like "Christian-ese," and the more folks talk about Christ, often the less I see of Jesus in their actions (this is not always the case, but far too frequently). As Francis of Assisi said, "Preach the Gospel at all times and when necessary use words." When I listen to spiritual music, I want to hear and feel what is really in the hearts of people; I desire authenticity over simplicity, honesty over correctness.
My intention with my "Sunday Song" postings is to share a song that resonates with me as honest and authentic songwriting that acknowledges a higher power...a song that probably won't be heard playing in church.
Kicking it off, a song about feeling ashamed, guilty, and alone. We've all been there, right?
Grant Lee Buffalo- "Rock of Ages" from the album Mighty Joe Moon
