There was a meeting recently where everything came together. It didn't have some mystical quality of gathered silence that I would describe as a "gathered meeting," but for me there was a certain wholeness about the thing. It was a meeting that reminded quite potently of why I am Quaker. There were four different people who spoke. And if isn't really a thing to write down what other people say in a meeting for worship, this felt so much like a sermon. Or like spiritual Haiku-- in which there were several short lines with a surprise at the end that drew them all together. 1 One Friend spoke of growing/continuing despair and unease over the vast number of threats to the world and its people. Of how it seems we are powerless in the face of such incomprehensible forces. But then she realized that she couldn't fix everything... but she could do this one small thing. 2 One Friend spoke of an unexpected message read on a whiteboard in a men's restroom. It was a brief inspirational zen-like quote about flowers not comparing themselves to other flowers. An unexpected piece of light reading at a local tea shop. This Friend was really struck by how much time they spent comparing themselves to other flowers. And that the important thing was to really know who you are. 3 Then this person stood and talked about a time from 11:20-11:55 pm on December 10, 1988 when she was suicidal. And walked on the railroad tracks in the cold, waiting for a train. And then got bored and walked up a hill where some beautiful boy was practicing piano in an abandoned church. When she went inside (and scared the bejeezus out of him) he said he was practicing for an audition at conservatory. So she listened to him play. And it was glorious. Then he asked if she played and she looked at her raw red hands that were swollen from cold and said she did play, but she didn't have anything memorized. But it was okay because when she started playing, the boy turned out to have that very piece in a black canvas bag at his feet. And as she played she realized that for her, music was where the light lived. It was proof of divine. It was how spirit spoke to her. Always. And so when she continued to become the church pianist at that very place when the boy went off to college... and when she had her own auditions at a conservatory... and when she went to study music it was like she had gone to seminary. And at meeting, when she was given a message it was almost always music. But she felt guilty. Felt like apologizing. Because... no, just guilty. There wasn't a good reason. When she had a song, and it was a message, she wanted to say that she was sorry. Maybe because it wasn't the usual way of messages-- but other people sang too, so that can't be it. So she had a song that was a message and had sat there with it for a long time because she didn't want to apologize. But when she started to feel her heart pound out of her chest, she rose. And gave the explanation. And then sang. Let it Fall (by Over the Rhine) Have you been trying too hard Have you been holding too tight Have you been worrying too much lately All night Whatever we've lost I think we’re gonna let it go Let it fall Like snow ‘Cause rain and leaves And snow and tears and stars And that’s not all my friend They all fall with confidence and grace So let it fall, let it fall Have you been carin' too much How this one ends Y’know it’s not the kind of fight That you lose or win When you’re down so low You feel the imprint of the ground On skin Look around Breathe in ‘Cause rain and leaves And snow and tears and stars And that’s not all my friend They all fall with confidence and grace So let it fall, let it fall 4 One friend talked about how their child was recently assaulted-- kicked to the ground. It was a case of mistaken identity. Misplaced revenge. but an all-out brawl was avoided when he and his friends refused to engage. Didn't escalate. The End And not engaging became that one small thing. Knowing who he was. And being who he was without apology. And feeling the imprint of the ground on skin... let it go. Comments are closed.
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K. BuchananQuaker, teacher, parent, |