Once Upon a Time . . .

B.C., before Covid, before 9/11, There was an "American Dream"narrative many believed. That dream followed Americans from childhood all the way through adulthood then well into the "Golden Years." We lived on a consistent message that these United States of America held a certain promise that was guaranteed by the words written into the U.S. Constitution before we were born. Before now, we took that promise for granted, assuming it would stand the test of time for all time, or at the very least, for our own lifetime! Think again, my fellow Americans.

In 2016, on a frigid, snowy Sunday morning in an historic, New England church where many sermons and hymns had been sung before, a retired minister stood up unapologetically to say that although it had not been his practice to speak politically from the pulpit, this day he knew he had to. He was about to send up a warning flare like the night the Titanic did so. In vain.

In the 1960's, his mother had been an activist, he said. She had spoken up and worked against those who tried to oppress all others who belonged to the "protected" classes* under the Constitution. She had taught her son to speak up and that brought him to where he was standing on this day before a small congregation in one of the poorest, most depressed cities in the State of Massachusetts. He told us that when his mother passed away, he discovered a full dossier of her activism assembled by the FBI. He, too, as a young man had been documented for his affiliations with his mother! That didn't stop either one of them from speaking up, out, and outloud about the injustices many Americans suffered on a daily basis.

Their words and actions, along with many others, were instrumental in making it possible for everyone to vote, regardles; making it possible for women to receive safe, legal reproductive health care in their own community; making it possible to find asylum from brutal dictators elsewhere; making it possible to become an educated citizen through local schools; making it possible to breathe clean air and drink safe water; making it possible to attend synagogue or mosque or church without fear. This was the short list of possibilities that the minister juxtaposed against the long list of Presidential candidates that Spring in 2016. Then, this retired minister living out his Golden Years, spoke like a prophet that morning:

"We thought we had addressed and resolved many of the wrongs. We were the ones who were wrong! All the hatred, all the prejudice, all the evil, had just gone into a Pandora's Box. Now, in 2016, someone has the key and is about to open it in the next four years."

In 2023, we can attest to those prophetic words having been written into our American story. We American citizens must face this truth head on before it's too late. Too late for what? To late to speak freely, to write freely, to read freely (almost too late already), and to vote freely, which is becoming as precarious as in dictatorships that so many people flee against all odds. Is this the ending we want to write?

In 2024 . . . If we do not wish our story of a free democracy to come to an end, we must, each of us, act now, speak up now, against that very real and very present danger against OUR Democracy.

In the end, Pandora did open that box and unleashed all that was evil on an innocent world. But, the preacher told us not to forget that inside the box, there was also Hope!

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*www.eeoc.gov race, color, religion, sex (including pregnancy, sexual orientation, or gender identity), national origin, age (40 or older), disability and genetic information (including family medical history).

In-Between Light and Dark

St Augustine photo by Charlene

Something happens

We pause.

For the next three weeks, approaching the winter solstice, the in-between will be elongated as days grow darker, earlier and earlier. We may grumble and bemoan darkness descending while turning on lights around the house by 4 or 5 pm. Or, we may relish the chance to draw the blinds against the world. Twenty days and nights can feel long while waiting for the shortest day to come, or as some prefer, the longest night. I love the winter solstice because it forces everything into an in-between world that often goes unnoticed.

Last evening, I strolled as the sun was setting and the half moon was rising. The hues, subtle at first, became radiant shades of red-orange against a purple backdrop of a not-quite-night sky. The world was perfectly still, as if coaxing the weariest among us to stop. A few neighbors were out and about, each one commenting, "What a beautiful evening"!

I returned home to a darkened house, crossing the threshold between two worlds of light and dark. It wasn't but a minute before I had to turn on a light, but that minute was held up by magic. Drawn to the window to witness the remains of the day, I sensed time itself suspended in-between the light and dark. In this liminal space, darkness is an invitation to light a candle of hope.

Music and Words Rise Up

When I begin my longish list of what I am most grateful for in my longish life, music rises up to the top. It is the antidote; the lament; the grace note needed when the world spins out of control.

Next are words, not lyrical, necessarily, but any written word that comes from some mysterious realm where actual words are never spoken. You know the place where the unsayable speaks to your heart in words only you hear? Once, I heard, This pain is not physical, as I stepped into a hot tub to soak some aching bones. Ah! A message dropped down from some passing angel .

When my (second) favorite poet, David Whyte put thoughtful words together with simple and almost silent music, the message was richer than either one or the other alone might have to offer. It is my thank you to my faithful readers: https://open.substack.com/pub/davidwhyte/p/gratitude-a-new-video?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=email

When I count my blessings, once again, this Thanksgiving Day, I note with grace, small groups that have become like family: Notably, the (original) River Writers: Ann, Cheryl, Mike, and Roger. My Pilgrim Sisters, too many to name, but especially my co-leaders, Betsy and Julie. My hospitable hosts and special friends (you know who you are) "across the pond" in Norwich: Josiah, Father RIchard, Sarah, and the Friends of Julian. Closer to home, the Sisters of St. Joseph holding open the door into that sacred realm with hearts full of loving kindness. Thank you, Sister Jane! The Florida Chamber Music Project, one and all! And, without a doubt, the professional nurses and doctors of Baptist Health for your good care.

My own family, each and everyone, deserves to be mentioned before the world by name: Phillip, Sarah, Tara, Diane, Anna, Laura, David, Charlie, Cierra, Charlotte,Cherylann, Laura, Walt, Henry and my favorite poet, Lance!

Sharing blessings is what Thanksgiving means. You are welcome to share your own in the comments section at the bottom of the page. Thank you!