I wrote this reflection, "An Ordinary Friday," for the Nov. 12, 2017, service titled One Year Later at the Unitarian Universalist Church ofUrbana-Champaign. (Audio at the link above)
A year ago, in the days after
the election, I was in the throes of grief, and I wasn’t sure how I was going
to get through it. I wore black for a week. I love color, but I couldn’t face
it.
In the year since, I have
felt the need to turn inward, to find ways to nurture my compassion and my
gratitude—to balance out my anger and fear. And to turn outward as well, to
engage in ways I can sustain and which sustain me.
Over these months, I have
found that the world has come to feel more fragile and more precious. I have
come to realize even more deeply how much I love it, this world of ours.
I was reminded of the
preciousness and beauty of our world on a Friday about three weeks ago. I was
sitting in Westside Park in downtown Champaign, eating an early lunch and choosing
the poetry I wanted to read for our UU coffeehouse, when I heard children’s
voices behind me.
“It’s the Music Man!” a
little boy exclaimed. After a brief pause, he added, “He’s going to make
music!” The certainty in his voice moved me, and I turned around to look.
About eight children—they
were about four years old—were walking one behind the other, holding onto a
rope. They were heading towards the nearby preschool. A little distance from
them, on a low stool, sat a middle-aged man, a bag beside him. He reached in,
took out what looked like a small horn, and began to play music. Excited sounds
came from the children.
I
smiled and returned to my lunch and reading. A minute later, I heard more young
voices.
“It’s
the Music Man! Hi, Jay!”
About
a dozen more kids were on the path to the preschool.
“Hi Jay! Hi Jay!” a chorus of
voices called out. The man kept playing the music; the children waved and
smiled and chattered excitedly.
I was struck by the joy the
Music Man and the children brought each other through the repetition of what
was clearly a regular event in their lives. I had been reading poems that
emphasized our interdependence—and here I was witnessing the joy it brings.
Witnessing it brought me joy.
I was struck by how this
still goes on, this kind of kindness and interdependence, even while chaos and cruelty dominate the highest levels
of our government. Noticing moments like this is what has allowed me to nurture
gratitude and compassion in myself, to avoid being consumed by anger and
despair. There are opportunities every day, and I try to remain open to them.
That is how I get through:
looking at sunlight on the tall tree outside the Champaign Public Library where
I wrote some of this homily, or noticing the engaged looks on my students'
faces at Parkland as they listen to each other discuss meditation or feminism, or
witnessing the kindness and joy of strangers. These moments of beauty and attention
and kindness are as real as the injustices and violations that capture the
headlines. Each morning, standing with palms pressed against each other and
looking out the living room window, I greet the day and bring to mind the
compassion and beauty I witnessed the day before; this practice of paying
attention nourishes me and strengthens me and opens me. It reminds me why I
love our world and reminds me why I must keep fighting for it.
---
Two works, introduced to me by Rev. Florence Caplow, our new settled minister at UUCUC, have helped lift me during the past year:
the poem "Now, I Love You. Now, I Witness" by the UU minister Theresa Soto
and the song "I'm Gonna Walk it With You" by Brian Claflin and Ellie Grace.
What has helped you?
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| Community has sustained me this year. These candles were lit at the beautiful Solstice service yesterday at our Unitarian Universalist Church; they represent individual goals for the solar year, goals pursued with the knowledge that we have the support of our community. |
