When I first
launched this blog, I named it “Retirement in the Mix” because it seemed (and
still seems) like my retirement includes such a lovely and complicated mix of
experiences. This past few days has been just like that—a lovely mix. As I was
thinking about how to tease some theme from these seemingly separate events, it
struck me that there is a link … although it brings yet another ingredient into
the mix. First the connection, then the adventures:
As I’ve mentioned
before, in late June, I’ll be attending a week-long Smithsonian course in
astronomy at Chautauqua in upstate New York. So, I’ve been reading my homework,
a book called Origins. As I told my partner when we discussed this recently, although I
could not pass a test on the details of astrophysics, I have already learned
some things.
For instance, I have learned how very literally, concretely true
it is that we are all connected. To our very core. We are made of the same
stuff, all of us. And it's the same stuff that makes up bacteria, redwoods, the earth, the sun, the big
dipper, Orion’s belt, the Milky Way, and the Andromeda galaxy. I call it star stuff because it comes, literally, from the stars. Everything is star stuff (except maybe dark matter and dark energy, which remain a mystery even to people who can pass a test on the details of
astrophysics). I’m not even talking here about a philosophical or humanistic or
religious belief in the common humanity of all people. Those notions clearly
fit with what I am saying, and I don’t mean to challenge or dismiss any of them.
But what I’m talking about here is that we are really, actually, literally, physically,
on a molecular level all made of the same stuff.
I invite you to ponder
on that as I tell you my recent adventures. Stay tuned. A discussion will
follow …
Adventure 1: Late
last week the stormy weather finally lifted just in time for a walking tour of
Boulder’s African-American history. For those of you who know anything about
Boulder, you might guess that this is a pretty sparse history. Currently, I
learned, Boulder’s African-American citizens account for less than 1% of the city’s
total population. Add that fact to the standard historical disinterest in
under-represented groups (one form of under-representation, of course, is precisely
absence from published histories), and it’s not surprising that little has been
written about the history of the small numbers of African-American people who
have lived here. What is known seems to be sort of a microcosm of circumstances
faced by African-Americans elsewhere.
Despite Boulder’s
contemporary reputation as a liberal bastion (which many folks contest, by the
way), Blacks have faced much the same discrimination here as they encountered
elsewhere in the country. Historically, they were largely shunted into
particular, less favorable neighborhoods (in the flood plain), and they built
“back houses” in their yards to accommodate black students and other boarders
who couldn’t find lodging. For a time, the Ku Klux Klan was very active in Colorado
(including in Boulder), and cross burnings were familiar events. In the face of
this treatment, some African-American people still saw Boulder as a
(relatively) great place to live, while others saw it as yet another bastion
of racism, no better than the rest. Some stayed and made their place (and their
peace?) in Boulder; others left.
As the leader of
this tour was eager to point out, some African Americans who stayed were very
successful—providing the dominant majority with “proof” that racism wasn’t (isn’t)
really a problem. Not unlike the myth of the “post-racial” society that
followed the election of an African-American president.
Adventure 2: On
Saturday morning, my partner and I attended a blessing ceremony for a Hmong
student who had worked with us both on a year-long research project. A huge
group—we estimated maybe 50—of this young woman’s extended family and friends
from the local Hmong community had come to celebrate her graduation with a traditional
ceremony. Folks of all ages were gathered—from elders to infants, some of them
speaking English, some speaking only Hmong, many speaking both.
The event began
with congratulatory comments from her older brother and her parents—these were
in Hmong, but another student (the celebrant’s cousin, who also worked on the
research project) translated for us. We were also invited to speak, the only
other people who were. We took this as a great honor, but also worried that it
might be based on our privilege as two of the few white people there. Later, it
became clear that this honor (as well as an invitation to sit at the head
table, otherwise reserved for a few male elders) came from our role as
teachers—in this case, teachers who had supported the first person in this
family ever to receive a college degree. Their respect for education was
evident, and we served as the symbol of that institution.
Next came the
blessing ceremony, led by a Hmong shaman. He blessed the parents and the
graduate, wiping away bad luck and delivering good luck with chants and
gestures. Then, everyone assembled tied strings—one each—around the wrist of
the graduate and each of her parents. They will wear these strings, which together
reached halfway up their forearms, until they fall off. They’ll serve as an
ever-present reminder of the presence and good wishes of their family and
community. It was a remarkable event, a reminder of how wonderfully, warmly
diverse the world is, right outside our door.
Adventure 3: Saturday
night, we went to a concert by “Somethin’ about Lulu”
at Swallow Hill.
“The Lulus” are a local band, three women who make wonderful (and wonderfully
fun) music together. We’ve heard the Lulus many times. In fact, we’ve been sort
of groupies for a few years. They just came back from a hiatus, and this
concert was a marvelous re-entry. They’re musically really excellent—from
belt-it-out torch to gentle folk songs, with stunning, mellow harmony. And, to
top it all off, they are really funny. Their tag line is “harmony and
hilarity,” and it totally fits. In fact, Saturday night, newly back performing
together, they made a few mistakes—which instantly became part of the humor of
the show. The audience was in stitches, as were the Lulus, and nobody cared a
whit that it all came from a goof. This is not to say that the whole show was a
giggle fest. On the contrary. They also played some beautiful, poignant music,
some of it written in response to personal loss. In the words and the feel of some pieces, I heard echoes of the recent Resonance concert, a nod to the impermanence of life and a call to live well the time
we have. Their last song, written by Susan Werner,
makes this point:
May I suggest
May I suggest to
you
May I suggest this
is the best part of your life
May I suggest
This time is
blessed for you
This time is
blessed and shining almost blinding bright …
This is a song
Comes from the west
to you
Comes from the
west, comes from the slowly setting sun
With a request
With a request of
you
To see how very
short the endless days will run
And when they’re
gone
And when the dark
descends
Oh we’d give
anything for one more hour of light
And I suggest this
is the best part of your life.
Maybe the most
touching song, for me, was a simple piece called “Chopsticks,” written by one
band member in honor of her mother. With very few words and some wonderful
guitar picking, she managed to evoke all the warmth and sorrow of loving and
losing someone very dear. The combination of music like this and a performance
laced with hilarity made for one of the most satisfying concert evenings I
recall.
Adventure 4: Finally,
on Sunday, we went to a Sound Circle concert. I’ve written about Sound Circle before, lots of times (try the
“search” box on your right to see how many), so I won’t go on again about their extraordinary
musicality and Sue Coffee’s exceptional programming and directing skills. Instead,
I’ll note that this concert was the third musical event I’ve been to in recent
weeks that carried this message of life’s preciousness and fragility, this time
with a particular emphasis. The title of the concert was “Walk Me Through This One,” a line from “Calling all Angels,” one of the songs they performed. The
message: we need to care for, be present for one another as we pass through
this tenuous life. This concert included a poem by Linda Millemann* (who wrote
the words to my favorite song from the recent Resonance concert)—this time spoken rather than sung:
Life Insists
Life insists we
love both deeply and lightly
Over and over again
the passing of the
seasons showing us how …
I think God knew
how hard a lesson
this holding tight,
this letting go
would be for all of
us.
She pondered how to
help
and this is what
she chose …
Continuing the
concert’s theme, another spoken-word piece pointed to the simultaneous loneliness of grief and knowledge that we are joined in grief by all others who
grieve and who, paradoxically, share the same feelings of profound loneliness
in their grief. The need for community at such times is profound, as is, in the
best of worlds, it’s presence.
And so, to the promised
discussion …
It was during
halftime at the Sound Circle concert that I was telling my partner about how we
are all star stuff, literally made from the stuff of stars. And only afterward
did I realize that this is what unites all these experiences: we are all star stuff. We are so
thoroughly interconnected and so thoroughly transient, spending a blink of our
cosmic existence in this state we call “life.” We are all star stuff! What can possibly be the point, then, of talk of
inferiority and superiority, of us vs. them, of customs that are worthy and
those that are not, of people who are worthy and those who are not? One of
Sound Circle’s songs spoke to this idea. “How Can I Cry” asked how it is that
I, who am privileged in so many ways, can cry for freedom. I cry, it answered,
for those who cannot, for the voices that are silenced. We are responsible for
one another. We are connected in our very essence. Between the stars that we
were and the star stuff we will ultimately become is this life that we must
all—all—hold lightly, share well with
others, and then let go.
Each of these
adventures had its own meaning, its own charm. But diverse as they may seem,
they all fit in my growing sense about what we need to know about living,
especially as we get old. These experiences combine, it seems to me, in the
message that division among us is so pointless and community is so important as
we navigate this brief, cherished life. That seems a message worthy of uniting
walking histories, community blessings, and all manner of music making.
______________
*Linda Millemann has recently published a book of her poetry, Along the Way. To order a copy, email her here.
