Another anniversary…

I remember, like millions of others, the bright, warm, September morning - the ordinariness of it all banal by now. And the horror that followed those morning routines is recalled so many different ways.

I was not there. I was miles away, ensconced in the old house in Connecticut where we were going to make our home for the next few years, or so we thought. Like millions of others, I watched on television, frightened, awestruck and not quite believing what I was seeing. A trip into the city just one week later brought me in touch with the loss, the grief and to my mind hopefulness and hopelessness expressed in those “missing” posters around Union Square, Penn Station and Grand Central.

So what do I feel on this 8^th anniversary? Sorrow – aching sorrow. There is grief for all the lives lost and anger over the way this country’s leaders led us into wars and terror on a new scale. But overwhelming sorrow… for what cannot be returned, for what was lost in the rubble, for the greed and belligerence that the event engendered.

After the attacks, I believed that this was an opportunity for us (citizens of the United States) to rise to our best selves. United in grief, we would seek justice but not vengeance. We would model a righteous peacefulness and we would rebuild in new ways. Naive hopes, perhaps, but I believe it still, even though I am more convinced every day that humanity may not reach this state in my lifetime. I must believe it is possible.

For me, these thoughts are almost a daily presence. Reports on the “progress” of the wars in Afghanistant and Iraq, the economy warped and ravaged by those wars, the rebuilding of “ground zero and the value of real estate in Manhattan… every day, opportunities to reflect on how the attacks of September 11^th invade and affect our lives in one way or another. I don’t brood over the memories, but I sense the interconnections, the reverberations in all that happens now..

So let me say this: just as I hoped for and advocated a peaceful response to those attacks, from the beginning I believed that no new towers should be built on that site. There is plenty of commercial real estate available in New York City.

Might not the site already be reopened if they had simply built some kind of memorial museum-like building in a park-like setting that focused on two still, reflecting pools marking the “footprint” of each of the World Trade Center towers. Simple, peaceful, full of memory and maybe even hope… why do we have to make a buck on this extreme event? Each year people are moved by the “absence” memorial created by the twin beams of light that reach into the night sky on lower Manhattan.

My heart still breaks. But my heart must still have hope.

Woodstock – the short version

As soon as I heard about Woodstock on the alternative rock/FM station out of Philly, I was sure I was going. Just that it wasn’t with the person I had originally planned to go with – but that’s another story. So I went with a boyfriend* and his best friend. We arrived late Friday night… avoided some of the traffic jam by taking back roads in “upstate” NY. Pitched a tent and woke up Saturday morning to this amazing scene of thousands and thousands of people all around us.

But as my family knows, the bummer of my trip to Woodstock was that we left early – to beat the traffic, I think, and because the best friend wasn’t picking up chicks easily enough (maybe it had something to do with his Army Ranger beret, haircut and demeanor – well, he was going to ‘Nam soon).

Did see and hear some of the concert (Country Joe McDonald; some forgettable group called Quill; and Santana – who was as hot and cool and revolutionary as they say!!!). But missed the big names.
Cannot recall what we ate – there is a memory of eating cheez-whiz on crackers and rinsing just-brushed teeth with 7-up. Obviously I was not involved in planning (or had not yet become the serious “trip organizer” I am now). And there were some folks camped near us who did plan well – frying up bacon for breakfast on their little camp stove. And the port-o-johns were an experience…
I sometimes wonder what would have happened had I just pulled a hippie-chick thing and refused to leave on Saturday (I really wanted to stay) and tried to find my own way home. Clearly, I was not a hard-core flower child!

It was an unforgettable experience –even if most of it only lives on for me in hours of classic film footage. Watching yet another documentary last night, it was cool to see the acts I did see featured – wow, man! I am glad I got to go – even though I was just a little part of it, Woodstock remains a big part of me.

Desert Blooms

It was late on a cloudy, rainy day in Canyonlands. I could see the mesas stretched out below us, with the deep gorges carved by the Colorado and Green Rivers. It was magnificent, but I groused about the dim light, the misty, hazy view. My pictures would not be nearly as dramatic as I had hoped.

We reached our last stop for the day: Mesa Arch. As we parked in the lot near the trail, the rain started up again. No umbrella, no rain jacket – do we go? I was committed: we had come this far and really, what else were we going to do? But because of the rain, I left my camera in the car. The trail up was an easy one; scent of juniper and pinon were in the air. As we strolled along, the rain was slowing to a sprinkle.

I was busy looking up at the sky, debating with myself if I should turn around and get the camera, when Mary pointed out the small cactus plants just alongside the trail. There were tiny red buds on top of the spiny, flat plants that seemed ready to burst open. The thirsty desert plants needed this rain. Rain drops clinging to spiky leaves offered a little desert mouse a welcome drink. This kind of a day was a blessing for them.

And then we neared the top of the trail. There was the arch – wonderful, magnificent, awesome! The clouds broke up and the sun peeked through. Looking through the span of the arch out into the canyon below took my breath away. For a moment, I deeply regretted not having my camera to record this. A gentle poke in the ribs from my trail companion reminded me that the picture was not the point.

Seeing this amazing vista, this harsh and beautiful landscape, the result of eons of wind and water and moving earth, even as it may appear harsh and alien, it is still part of us and we are part of it. This planet that evolved out of light and dust and air and water is flowing in our own lives. I didn’t need a camera to catch that. As I write this, here in Salt Lake City, I’m thinking about all the opportunities we have to feel this connection every day.

It needn’t take a great canyon or an ancient sandstone arch to remind us of the magnificence and terrifying beauty of creation. And despite the seeming constant rains of mid-June, summer brings us more opportunity to feel the mystery and wonder of the world around us, whether in a city street or a lush green garden or a sandy ocean beach or a shaded mountain trail.

I hope you will use this time to breathe in the mystery of creation and rejoice in its beauty. Even when things are not as we would like them to be; even when things seem to conspire to rain on our parade or ruin our plans; even when events near and far seem to threaten our peace and security… even then we need to look, feel and remember, as the poet Mary Oliver says:

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things. (from Dream Work © Mary Oliver)

After leaving the arch behind and making our way back to the car, I grabbed my camera and made my way back to that small group of cacti. One of the tiny red-tinged buds had fully opened in the late afternoon sun. I hadn’t noticed it before. Was it there the first time we walked by? Maybe; maybe not. But it was lovely and worth the wait!

Commencement

It was a little odd, sitting at graduation ceremonies at Meadville-Lombard, feeling the warmth and pride of the moment, the strong sense of community. And then there was this little bit of dislocation. There were words spoken to the graduates that brought me up short.

The majority of those receiving degrees that day were completing their Masters of Divinity studies and the remarks were addressed to those embarking on their ministerial careers. What in heaven’s name was I “beginning” with this doctorate? For sure I was returning to the same job, the same congregation, the same work.

Then again, we are always “beginning” something in our lives, and in each day we are changed. And then those lines from a Denise Levertov poem crept into my reflection (probably because I used it in a sermon just a couple of months ago… perhaps you remember it?). She begins:

But we have only begun
To love the earth.

We have only begun
To imagine the fullness of life.

How could we tire of hope?
-- so much is in bud.

The poet suggests that we are not yet be done with our work here on earth, even when something seems to have ended. There are so many hints at the possibility of “justice and mercy”; we are only now coming to understand our relationship to all creation. And

We have only begun to know
the power that is in us if we would join
our solitudes in the communion of struggle.

We are always beginning. And so I settled into myself, listening to Dr. Ysaye M. Barnwell speak to us from her experience, with her powerful voice, singing us into this new beginning. And I realized how fortunate I am to be in this company, in this community.

Returning home from Chicago - as it is returning from any journey - is a new beginning. There are lists I could be making of “what to do next,” thinking about what new project should fill the space created by completing this goal. And then I realized that the point is not so much to fill up the time with a new plan, but to find ways to deepen what is already here.

So it is for the congregation as well. We undertake projects and programs to express or fulfill our mission. We revise By-laws and reform our structure and rededicate our selves to the work of “being” this congregation. We might think we are “done” after the Annual Meeting or when a term of service ends - but we are not. We are all beginners, and the work goes on.

So much is unfolding that must
complete its gesture,
so much is in bud.

The Common Good

Well, it seems that Facebook has overtaken "blogging" for me, at least for awhile. I was never very regular anyway. Sometimes it seems like my thoughts and opinions and reflections are too many for even one post!
Right now, for example, I am focused on the idea of the common good - an ethic foundational to democracy and one from which we have strayed.
Years ago, Robert Bellah offered some pointed critiques at the Unitarian Universalist Association’s General Assembly, basically warning us of the dangers of rampant individualism. As a society and a culture, we in this country have lost sight of the common good. The current situation makes the motto “greed is good” of the 1980’s mere pabulum. Even in this economic crisis, when things are looking pretty dire and people utter the word “depression” and they’re not talking about Zoloft, it’s all about “me and my needs” and not “rescuing” all those undeserving people.
But as Mr. Spock would say: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one."
What's got my dander up is yesterday's anti-tax "Tea Parties". One sign read "My Money, My God, My Guns" or something. It had a slightly silly but rather dangerous anti-Obama feel, from what I saw. It was silly and shortsighted... the Gingrich-Limbaugh-sore loser Republicans grasping at straws. Don't they get it? We cannot continue that road of “what’s good for me is good for me, and that’s all that matters.”
Can we look back to some older notions of democracy and how government is "of, by and for” the people... and that the people serve one another?
I feel a little like Galadriel offering a warning: "The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the Company is true. The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the Company is true."
Ah, the drama!

Restoring American Values

Back in July, I bought a wooden cutting bard at one of my favorite Hyde Park spots - Medici Bakery (and I recently read in the NY Times, this is one of Obama’s favored spots as well). This is no ordinary cutting board though… it has marked on it these words: “Restore American Values - Competence, Integrity, Intelligence, Peace, Compassion… ELECT OBAMA IN 2008”.
So far we’ve done the last part - Barak Obama is President-elect. And as I listen to the short acceptance speeches his newest team (today, National Security) are making, I feel that the first three of those “values” are already well in the works. If all goes as hoped, the other two should follow.
Some people/pundits have been carping about the choices Obama has made thus far - they do not seem to represent “change”. But change is more than a new nameplate on the door. Change is a fundamental shift in attitude and in actions. I expect these people, accepting these roles in the Obama-Biden Administration, will be taking on very different values and viewpoints from what we have known in the past eight years.
Folks may have ties to the most recent debacle of an administration or roots in the last Democratic presidency… but what they bring to the table may be skills and knowledge that, when properly directly, will bring about the change we need, change we can believe in!
These post-Thanksgiving thoughts lead me to truly believe in the essential Christmas spirit: compassion, hope, love and peace.

Between the Lines…

The National Guard Armory where I vote is a specious gymnasium kind of room. The tables and voting cubicles for the different Districts in this Ward surround the perimeter of the room. Usually it’s a calm scene… a few voters wandering in, poll workers chatting with one another. I freely stroll across the room to the table for # 26 (which I never remember from year to year, but I know the spot they occupy and recognize the man standing next to the “booth”).
But this morning… this morning! What a scene. A traffic jam at the narrow entrance to the small parking area. Surrounding streets parked up, and people crossing busy Hamilton Avenue with apparent energy - at 6:40 AM in the morning!
The voting area was filled with people - filled. Lines snaked around, each heading to one of the cubicles. It could have been chaotic, but it seemed to be working just fine. I thought we were going to be there for an hour at least.
The people jamming the room, the folks having to wait in the long lines, were mostly African American and people of color. They were there, as were we all, to have our say, cast our vote in this momentous election.
At our District there was no line. A five minute wait and I was in the “booth”, pressing those little boxes on the touch screen. I hope that the people staffing these other Districts’ booths are going to make the wait and the process as easy as possible for everyone.
And I hope the people all over this country will have patience with this process, hang in there and wait to vote, even when the lines are long and the mood perhaps not as patience and cheerful as this morning. We all have to hang in there with the process.
And if things go the way I hope [and if you could not tell, I am a dyed-in-the-wool “blue state” girl], we will have to be patient again. There will be a process of transition and a process of change that is not going to happen overnight. But it will happen. It may not happen exactly as the campaign speeches promised - but it will come. The turning will be slow, but turn we will.
Yes we can. Si se puede. Yes, we can!