eleven minutes with antonio

my ipod can usually figure out what i need to hear. i hit shuffle and it takes over. this morning we had to work together... neither of us knew what fit. finally, the second movement of vivaldi's spring (largo) accompanied the lyrics playing out around and inside me as i sat in queen's park. 11:33 of beauty.

the green paint of the picnic table peels away to let me read the carved initials. there's a spray-painted stenciled prayer: "love and wisdom to you." i echo the request and take my seat. joggers and busses and traffic and a man sitting on a bench 50 meters away, rocking. the dark tree trunks speak of a depth and richness i long for. so real, so concrete. their limbs spread overhead, a symphony of green. peaking through, a sky that glows with blue and white. so good. so very, very good.

vivaldi didn't include wind rushing through drying leaves in his orchestration, to say nothing of the rumble of the subway underfoot. i'm not sure he'd object, though. do the vibrations of the subway affect the trees here, i wonder? every three minutes or so, the roots dance, for better or for worse. are they stronger for it? or do they long for stability and stillness?

strange how a piece about spring fits so well with fall... especially on a university campus. fresh starts: new friends, new lessons, potential that just makes you ache. i think about how i love the smell of autumn, but realize it's the smell of decay. "but," i reflect, "it's death that paves the way for new life." maybe Christian spirituality is about choosing that death over the other kind - the kind that sticks.

do i use the word "beauty" too often? should i guard it so it becomes more sacred, more meaningful? thing is, i don't want to fail to recognize that which *is* truly beautiful... what if God is in the ordinary and life is beautiful and i love being soaked by rain and having the wind play with my skirt and imagining that i am not alone, after all? what if "sacred" doesn't mean "rare"?

i think about what i'm thinking about. how i'd write it. are we really who we are when we write? why am i not like this when i order my london fog or shop for shoes or run for the bus?

sigh.

i let my hair fall on my shoulders and watch and listen and rumble with the subway. i wrestle with impatience. i wonder if there will be a time in my life when this is a priority: when sitting and being (except without thinking so much about it) will come naturally and frequently. when i'll have someone to sit beside. but no talking. just being.

i've only ever shared a moment like that with one person. under a full, smokey moon, we stood, humbled and silent. maybe sharing wonder is the height of intimacy. not talking about it later, like i do here, but living it, together.

wonder six

i couldn't figure out what we were reading. the more i tried to grasp at details, the more they slipped away. all i remember clearly is that i raised my hand and reflected: "wisdom seems to be about unity, more than anything else. that's counterintuitive, because my view of a sage isn't that far from my view of a hermit. more than that, i feel like wisdom alienates you from society: you end up weeping in a dark corner by yourself. but this text suggests that wisdom draws us into community and communion with others."

wisdom is an enigma to me. maybe that's why i dream about it. i took a course on psalms & wisdom once, and we talked about hokmah and its definition... but that seems to fall short now. in "blue like jazz" don miller describes a moment when it felt like something true and beautiful had hit the table with a thud. that's what wisdom feels like to me. and, even though i have no clue where this idea came from, i'm beginning to see that my thirst for wisdom should lead me into community, into conversation with the world around me. here's some of what i'm hearing:

i went down to frwy to have a hummus sandwich, drink tea, and work on my senior paper. a few hours later, a vocal coach and four of her students had a concert on the little platform of the coffee house. one of the vocalists was retired; she'd dreamed of being a singer for years and years, and was finally in a position to follow her dream. she was a charming lady - forgetting the lyrics here and there - and she sang a song that has always brought tears to my eyes.

"what good is sitting alone in your room? come hear the music play..."

i watched this woman who had deferred her dream for so long... she was glowing. and it was like one day she had finally found the courage to be who she had always wanted to be.

when brian melo was reflecting on being in the final two in this year's canadian idol competition, he said, "this is something i've been dreaming about since i was a kid. the fact that it's happening makes me think that my heart wasn't lying to me."

my heart wasn't lying to me.

some things just feel right. and it's like your whole self is on board: you aren't constantly plagued by doubts, there are no dead butterflies in your tummy. it's born of a real desire for goodness and beauty and celebration and self-sacrifice. you know your conscience is clear, your motives are pure. it's not about selfish ambition or shallow achievement. the difficulties that come your way are real, and painful, but they pale in comparison with the prize. it feels like if you don't pursue this vocation, this skill, this virtue, this relationship, this work of art, this mountain, this truth, with all you have, you'll just dissolve into nothingness. it feels like this is what you're meant for.

may we all discover that, in those times, our hearts aren't lying to us.

there are endless stories about finding your voice... and with it the courage to let your voice ring out in joy, in mourning, in doubt, in trust, in truth. let's search together.

it's never too late to become what you might have been.
~ tag-line for "away from her"

o me! o life!... of the questions of these recurring;
of the endless trains of the faithless - of cities fill'd with the foolish;
of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than i, and who more faithless?)
of eyes that vainly crave the light - of the objects mean - of the struggle ever renew'd;
of the poor results of all - of the plodding and sordid crowds i see around me;
of the empty and useless years of the rest - with the rest me intertwined;
the question, o me! so sad, recurring - what good amid these, o me, o life?

answer.
that you are here - that life exists, and identity;
that the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
~ walt whitman

what good is sittin' alone in your room?
oh, come hear the music play,
life is a cabaret, old chum,
come to the cabaret!
put down that knittin',
the book,
and the broom,
it's time for a holiday!
life is a cabaret, old chum,
so come to the cabaret!
~ "cabaret"