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!

They wanted a voice.

This week the Canadian Government will take a vote on the Citizenship Act. I have been following closely. Bill C-3 is the latest iteration seeking to allow so-called "Lost Canadians" to claim their citizenship. The tap root, if you will, is heritage: The root that connects families through lineage from one generation to the next. The current law limits that lineage to first generation Canadians. How do you limit lineage? Pas possible! The final vote by the Senate is in debate as I write. It begs the question: What does it mean to be a citizen?

The Canadian debate is playing out in Parliament while simultaneously American citizenship is under violent attack in the streets. How we got here is our collective story. If you want a complete version of that history, Ken Burns' documentary: The American Revolution can be seen this week on PBS. The irony, of course, is that Public Broadcasting Stations have been eliminated from federal government funds. And, that is exactly where the American story began: Breaking with government.

It took a while, but those who fought for freedom, ordinary folks like you and me, stood up and took their shot(s) for the rest of us. They made a valiant effort against the British crown in Quebec City, home to my maternal grandparents.

That city is an impenetrable citadel that has served the people within its walls well for centuries. That wall should not keep out their own in the twenty-first century. "A Canadian, is a Canadian, is a Canadian", someone said. It could not be any clearer than that.

While they proceed to the vote on my, and many other generational citizenships, it evokes painful comparisons for those who do not wish to be citizens in places where they were born. When a person cannot live in peace and safety in the homeland, what else can be done but try to find a better home. The original colonists (rightly named) were immigrants seeking freedom from oppression, freedom from religious persecution, freedom, period. It would have been well and good had they arrived from their trans-atlantic sail to settle in a new homeland while leaving behind the King. As we know, the King had no intentions of letting the people go, no matter what. Kings are like that!

Many people knew their arduous decision to leave the homeland was just the beginning. Freedom was another thing. All they wanted was a voice. "Give me liberty, or give me death", turned the tide from an ongoing debate in Parliament to standing up for what was and is right. Liberty, Patrick Henry pointed out, is a pursuit, "a holy cause". These words were spoken not in a government house, but in a house of God, St. John's Church in Richmond, Virginia,*giving the patriotic Henry the freedom he sought to speak the truth. His inspired words, in essence were free speech that led others to follow what inevitably became the American Revolution against the British Empire. The beginning came in the town of Lexington, Massachusetts where I lived for a time.

"The birthplace of American Liberty" is represented by the Minute-man statue standing over the green in the middle of town. Each year, today's minute-men recreate that first "shot heard 'round the world". It is a powerful demonstration of the pursuit of liberty in action. We, too, are in pursuit. We want what they wanted: a voice. When that is taken, there is no liberty or justice for all, or any.

*ebsco.co Analysis: Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death

“THESE are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love

Supermoon from St Augustine Florida

and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated”

― Thomas Paine, The Crisis

The photo of the celestial supermoon was taken from my home in St. Augustine, Florida, named for the fourth century Bishop of Hippo, in North Africa.*

The call to prayer in North Africa is heard five times a day beginning with sunrise until sunset. Millions of people pause in place to listen and pray. The moonrise offers the same evocative, yet silent call.

Listen to the Moroccan Call to Prayer:

https://youtu.be/17YPTlOnS9o?si=ZHwqwExsIzhdHIau

*https://augustinian.org/spirituality/saint-augustine-of-hippo/