“Kirkin’ of the Tartans”

Joy was hard to find amongst the throng of worshipers gathered in the narthex of the church. Standing at 4’11”, in her sensible shoes, and colorful tartan skirt, her painted lips broke into a smile as we rounded the pair of taller men blocking our view. Her arms flew wide in my son’s direction, and he fell into them, as expected. As he pulled away, she retained her hold on his arms, looking him almost eye-to-eye, and exclaimed her delight at seeing him. Turning towards me, she fussed with the vest she’d squeezed beneath her jacket as I complimented her skirt.

She’d seen the pastor’s wife, so she was relatively sure the pastor had arrived as well, but she hadn’t seen the bagpiper. We discussed seating. She hoped it would be alright if we sat near the front. “I can’t sit too far back. It’s hard to hear…”

Three rows from the front, she sidled into a pew, allowing just enough space for our three bodies. Joy likes to touch. I could smell her perfume.

She’d been to the opera since I’d seen her. Rossini was one of her favorite composers, but she’d not seen this performance before. She described it as beautiful, light, and airy. She’d liked it very much.

The pews around us filled as I refreshed my memory of the sanctuary. Fashioned from gracious blonde wood, the ceiling arched high to accommodate and enhance the majesty of organ music, and the builders had preferred graceful curves to corners, giving the room a fluid feel. There was little decoration, save for a table on the rising in front of us, holding a single round of bread and a silver goblet. Behind the table, a three-piece band readied itself for the service, opposite a large, tartan-draped pulpit.

I sat, appreciating the warm simplicity of my surroundings, as my son surveyed the crowd of strangers. I wondered what he was learning. I complied with Joy’s request for a stick of gum.

And the music began…very softly at first, as though far away; a single bagpipe playing a familiar refrain. Placing my hand on his leg, I directed my son’s attention, and we turned to look behind us.

The piper was a sturdily built, older woman dressed in traditional Scottish garb. Heavy, utilitarian boots covered thick woolen socks that met her kilt, the plaid of which was repeated in the sash that partially covered her black woolen jacket. Her reddened cheeks alternately expanded and deflated as she sucked for air between blows, and I was immediately struck by her effort.

Behind her, a stately procession of tartans flowed in on tall poles carried by practiced, stern-faced parishioners. Each pole featured a symbol, and the name of a clan, above their corresponding plaid, and, as they passed, the large swatches of colorful material fluttered at us, gracefully. The music resounded against graceful blonde arches above us, and as the procession continued, my eyes filled with its proud beauty.

The musician took her place to one side of the rising as the tartans flowed in and around her, coming to rest at their designated spots along the thoughtfully curved walls, until we were surrounded by ancestral colors, the haunting strains of a lone bagpiper, and synchronicity.

The speaker, an older man of Scottish descent, and one-time pastor of this church, took the podium, proudly wearing the kilt of his clan. He began his address by explaining Jewish tradition, and, at first, I found myself captivated more by his soft, brogue-enlaced speech, than his message. His focus was on the concept, and importance of, “we, first-person plural…”. He credited early Jewish tradition with introducing the concept, and early Presbyterians with embracing it. He related the history of the “Kirkin’ of the Tartans”, and the prohibitions and ensuing violence that his ancestors had survived. As he spoke, I surveyed the proud plaids lining the walls behind him, and I understood.
We rose, as directed, and I added my voice to the others, as we sang “Amazing Grace” to the accompaniment of a single bagpipe….

As a child, I attended church every Sunday. The car rolled to a stop, and my mother unlocked the doors to let us out. As an adult, I attended for many years until politics monopolized our Sunday school lessons, souring me. World history classes, required by my major, officially debunked most of the Bible, assuring me that my soul was, indeed, in my own hands. Since that time, my attendance in church has been sporadic, and usually socially driven.

My choice to attend today was fueled by a desire to provide, for my son, an experience. The emotion I experienced was unexpected. As I sat in the sanctuary, surrounded by parishioners, and tartans, and history, I came to understand why they were there. I felt their belonging.

The bagpipe began to whine again, announcing a reversed procession. The plaids fluttered in the opposite direction, and I watched through tear-filled eyes. The music faded as the last tartan passed, before growing stronger again, causing me to turn, again, towards the front of the church.

She stood, singularly; framed by double doors. Sunlight rained upon her and the unlikely instrument, and after several minutes, the music continued as she turned, proudly, and walked away.

If Only

It had been years since I’d sung for anyone I hadn’t either married, or given birth to.

Melissa would change that. Coming into my life in a multi-colored, polyester, double-knit flurry, she challenged me, honing in on a weakness I’ve yet to conquer.

Our debut at The Shoe Box followed weeks of rehearsal that threatened the integrity of her century-old, clapboard house. Inevitably, as the night progressed, the tiny living room filled, flowing outside to surround a seemingly perpetual bonfire. And, we all came for the same reason. Because, even if only in this time, in this place; we were young, we were free, and we were music.

Blessings

The continuing ability to grow is a blessing.

“Wordsong”, the inspiration of my sister, my father, and a friend who believes in me when I can’t, was a gift I gave myself. She was dark…and stark…relying on my words for warmth; a true reflection of where I was.

In a marvelous example of serendipity, a single, innocently spoken word, uttered by a virtual stranger, sparked a metamorphosis; causing me to think, challenging me to grow.

And, this is where I am…

Grateful.

Waiting for the Light to Change

Twenty years old, I sat at a traffic light in a tiny yellow Datsun whose compact size barely accommodated my girth. I was eight months pregnant.

I wasn’t employed at the time, so I must have been heading home from a trip to the grocery store. I remember it was a Friday; payday. The light couldn’t have been long. I lived in a small town, but, it may have been rush hour. There were several people ahead of me, and more behind.

The tears came, unbidden; followed by an incredible rush of feeling unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or since. And, it filled me, starting in my feet, before rushing upwards. My hands, on either side of my mercilessly swollen belly, felt warm, and alive. Love, for an unborn child who kicked, ferociously, at the most inopportune times, making the sheer act of breathing difficult, overcame me, as I fought to remain cognizant of the mundane world around me. And the light changed….

“A person who loses a spouse is called a widow. A child, who has lost his parents, is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who has lost a child.”

A Way Out

Four inch heels impeded her progress to the entrance of the building, and November winds whipped the tail of her overcoat, whispering of winter.

A Mercedes passed, piloted by a man clutching a cellphone. She shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other. The bag contained her life; a carefully detailed, pored over, poetically enhanced regurgitation.

Most days, she hardly felt the weight of it. She carried it, and cared for it, guarding it against intrusion from any but the most accepting eyes. On long, lonely nights, it provided comfort, just by being there. It offered proof of her existence and answers to questions; in hopes they might be asked.

She crossed against diesel fumes, and hurried up concrete stairs, hoping the winds wouldn’t “undo” her. The weight of glass and steel paled in comparison to that of the artificially warmed air that greeted her upon opening the door. She hurried through the anteroom and breached a second entrance, while her eyes scanned the landscape for an alcove leading to a bathroom.

Satisfied that her morning ministrations had survived the crossing, she shouldered her burden and struck out, in search of a receptionist.

She left her name at the desk, and surveyed the glass-enclosed space for a seat, choosing a chair opposite the desk in an unoccupied row. Her cellphone trilled, giving her something to do with her hands. It was her son, home from school. “Just checking in…” She smiled in appreciation of the sound of a young boy’s voice, knowing she hadn’t much longer to hear it.

Her smile faded quickly as she pocketed the phone and lifted the tote to her lap. She glanced at the receptionist’s desk as she removed a document from the front pocket of the bag. A striking young man approached; his carefully manicured hands striking the desk twice before he unleashed his artificially whitened smile. The receptionist, at once bored, and barely breathing, reacted as expected by reciprocating. A conversation ensued, uninterrupted by the approach of a second visitor.

She shifted the paper from one hand to the other, uncrossing her legs, and re-crossing them in the other direction as she watched the trio. The young man bent over the counter, reaching, as the receptionist giggled and the visitor cleared his throat. They answered with laughter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while adjusting his cap.

“Ahem…” She wondered why he thought it would work, this time.

The doors behind her yawned again, sending a blast of cold air through the empty chairs, and an arc of reflective light after it. Irritation marred her painted features, as the receptionist tilted her head. The second visitor moved to block the light, giving his name, before turning.

She plucked at a dog’s hair, caught in the weave of her skirt. She checked her watch. Metal scraped against linoleum. A sigh escaped him as he sunk into the synthetically covered chair, and warmth, generated by the proximity of his body, told her he was near.

It was her turn to clear her throat as she cast her eyes past the reception desk in hopes of spotting her prey.

“Ain’t love grand?”, he started.
She looked up, before meaning to, allowing him to lead her eyes back to the desk.

She smiled and shifted the paper.

“Whatcha’ got there?” He shifted against the firmness of the seat, pulling his jacket together and turning, slightly, in her direction.

“I have to get this document signed…” She held it out, slightly, before training her eyes on him.

“And, you?” She lowered her hand, moving slightly in her seat.

“Meeting with a client. I’m a writer.” His voice carried pride.

“Oh? Really?” She smiled as she let one hand drop to the bag on the floor at her feet.

“What do you write?”

“Ad copy, mostly. And, I blog.”

“Really? Great!” She re-crossed her legs, wishing she had taken off her coat.

“Are you a writer?” His eyes, behind his spectacles, were kind.

“Oh, I write…some. I have a blog.” She shifted the paper, again, watching as it moved from one hand, to the other.

“Cool! Where are you? I could look you up!” His voice carried enthusiasm.

She laughed, self-consciously.

“It’s not public.” She said quietly, before clearing her throat, again. “I mean I’ve been working on it, off and on, for about a year, but only one person has access to it.”

Confusion, as it crossed his features awakened her insecurities, giving her pause.

“Why?” The word was spoken softly.

Her eyes searched the multi-faceted linoleum at her feet as she considered the question, and, as she turned them on him, spoke before she did.

“I don’t know…” She stopped, as he pulled back his head and shifted his weight. “It’s vulnerable, you know?” Her voice trailed with the last syllable and she mentally berated herself for her weakness.

“But…” He started quietly, before sitting up taller in the inhospitable chair. “Isn’t that the point?” The words were direct, and clear, and spoken by his entire being; and, his face, earnest.

Footsteps approached her chair, and she hastily collected her bag while smiling in his direction. She watched him watch her.

“Thank you…” She efforted to bring her voice above a murmur as she pulled the heavy, oaken door closed before clicking her way down the hallway.

“Hey, kid!” It was the man.

“Yes.” She spoke through a smile, as she shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other.

“Walk you out?” The bounce in his step repeated in his eyes as he led the way out of the building.

Sunday Night

Dusk sits just below the horizon.

A waning sun robs the evening air of warmth, allowing autumn’s fingers to slide under jambs and between panes. Candles, as she walks through the house lighting them, thwart their progress.

Music plays; good music, new music, soulful music, punctuating the air with an invitation to dance.

And she does. As she peels shrimp; tossing their casings into a pan. As she chops vegetables, and chooses seasonings. As she sips…

The slamming of the door accentuates a guitar chord, and she moves to the window.

She watches as he stands, helmeted; his college-style jersey swallowing his mesh shorts. On his feet, two different shoes, one white, and one black; in homage to a game they watched together, the day before.

“The kick is up….and it is good!” The crowd roars!

He trots in the opposite direction in his mismatched shoes; chest out, arms raised. He hears the roar of the crowd. He feels the admiration of the fans. And, as he returns to his imaginary sideline, he shoves his helmet to the top of his head, not totally off, and definitely not on, in admiration of Sunday’s warriors.

And she smiles, and gives silent thanks for all that is hers.

Content

I feel it emerging.

I know it will be fleeting.

I wish I could capture it,

and savor it,

and keep it for the next time

when I really need it;

Contentment.

Fruition…

“There is a freshness to the air, this morning….” These words began an email from a friend, whose status as an Irish expatriate rendered him unable to vote, but no less concerned with the outcome.

Our daily wake-up call, and the question I was eager to answer, greeted as expected, by juvenile shouts of joy. And his exuberance; as he detailed his plans to enlighten his middle-school friends with, “I told you so…” The image of a visage, flush with responsibility prompted my cautionary tone, as I encouraged my son to enjoy the victory quietly and gracefully, with a sense of community.

And, the ensuing, excited text message, “My bus-driver is mad. The kids are yelling “Obama”, but I didn’t do it. She says we can’t talk until Tuesday.” And, my answer, “Thank you, honey. I love you.”

The sob-clouded voice of a local radio DJ, openly wearing the label “Lesbian” in hopes that others like her will find un-closeted comfort, describing her reaction to his words of inclusion;

“It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled.”

A friend’s exuberant voice over my headset, as he describes a recent conversation, fraught with “pregnant pauses”, with his McCain-supporting brother, and the grace he was proud to offer.

The long-legged stride into my office, by a Republican hard-liner wearing a forced smile above his alligator-embossed shirt, and his cheery “Congratulations!”. And, as I swivel, my response;

“And, to you, too!”

“Oh, you mean the senatorial race…”

“No! I mean, you are an American, too. This is a great day for all Americans!”

And, an email from a Dutch friend, followed by a message from a German friend:

“Indeed it is true: in the USA fairy tales can come to reality!
We watched our TV during this night and early morning: of course CNN, but also 2 of our Dutch stations had a full-covering 9 (!) hours programme of the results of your election (what illustrates that not only “the Americans” were interested in the outcome).
We are so happy with the clear outcome: it will be Obama for the next 4 years. No doubtful 49.5 % versus 50.5 % but a huge non-arguable victory for Obama!
We sincerely hope, that he (and his administration) will soon get the opportuinity to show that he (they) can do better than your today’s president. Not only for the benifit of your country, but also for the other “inhabitants” of our world.”

“Hi, thaaank you for this mail after talking with us. You know me thinking like you! – and one of these days I will come over to meet you, so stay healthy and in good condition, so are my wishes for you. We got up this morning at 4 am to bring Marlen to the airport sur looking to the TV to see that B. Obama made it – that made us lucky and happy. This will be very important for your country and the relationship again between USA and Germany! (that`s what I want to come up again after these long 8 last years.) Marlen should be between GB and your continent, we two tried not to be sad like all these times but like ever we didn`t really made it.”

And, the artificially-cooled memory of watching, with interest, an aged black man, whose love for my father thwarted a punishing sun, as he withdrew remnants of the previous night’s dinner from a grease-stained brown paper sack while he perched on our back stoop.

And, Kathy. As integration creeped slowly into the deep south, we were bussed across town to a new elementary school. Kathy had skin the color of creamed coffee surrounding snapping dark chocolate eyes. It was difficult for me to understand why something as simple as skin pigment could render a person “less than”, and I defied my mother’s admonitions right up until the day we moved away from the city. Understanding, through experience, came easier to Kathy. I never heard her voice, again.

“Four years ago, I stood before you and told you my story, of the brief union between a young man from Kenya and a young woman from Kansas who weren’t well-off or well-known, but shared a belief that in America their son could achieve whatever he put his mind to.
It is that promise that’s always set this country apart, that through hard work and sacrifice each of us can pursue our individual dreams, but still come together as one American family, to ensure that the next generation can pursue their dreams, as well. That’s why I stand here tonight. Because for 232 years, at each moment when that promise was in jeopardy, ordinary men and women — students and soldiers, farmers and teachers, nurses and janitors — found the courage to keep it alive.”

An Intangible Difference

“No other national election has evoked this kind of emotion.”
As a form of explanation, in the heat of the moment, during a discussion of politics, these words rose to the surface, and sat on my tongue, while I considered their veracity. My mind ticked through previous elections. Images grossly akin to Halloween masks, strolled across my mind’s eye; Reagan, Carter, Ford, Clinton, Bush I and II, and I realized I had felt passion for my candidate during each of these contests, as well. The words remain unsaid. And, still, I consider them…and have come believe the words to be true in an intangibly unsettling way.

In years past, my choice of candidate was usually accompanied by a sure feeling of being “right”. As I considered the men running for President, the decision was a simple one, based on my beliefs and life experience.

“Do you want what’s hiding behind curtain “A” or curtain “B”?” Monty Hall’s face leered under a battered fedora as he spun a shiny black cane.

“Curtain “A”!” My voice rang true with the force of my convictions.

“Is that your final answer?” The question came in the form of endless, expensively produced commercials touting the merits of the one not chosen.

“Yes! That is my final answer!” And it was.

This time around, when asked the question, I find my voice wavering as my eyes search a distant point in the room, and my chest fills with a need for hope. And, therein, lies the difference.

The need for hope; not a full-blown, fist-clenching, flag-waving hope, but a need for hope. A look out the yawning door of an airplane, just before the jump, with the sincere desire that the parachute will function when called upon. That first tentative, pitch-black step away from the side of the bed towards the spot on the carpet where the dog might be sleeping. The catch of breath, when the numbers are called, as the ticket shakes inside a needy hand. The look on the face of one beaten down, afraid to trust an outstretched hand.

As my octogenarian friend frequently laments, “I’ve never seen things this bad.”, I realize it’s no wonder so many of us are uncertain. Nothing in our life experience has prepared us for our current condition, and our beliefs have been challenged by almost a decade of half-truths and outright lies told by those in whom we were forced to rely. We are the ones beaten down, afraid to trust.

On Tuesday, I will stand in line for hours, with hundreds of others in search of hope, and the mere presence of the crowd, as I scan it, will invoke these words:

“In God We Trust.”

In Gratitude…

You stormed into the room with an affable smile in your pocket, to be exchanged for an irascible grin, or a menacing scowl at the turn of a word.

You educated.

You elucidated.

You enlightened.

You hungrily took the bait, and, we watched for the occasional, sun-lit, glimmer as you played the line as far as it would go until; releasing, you hung back to give others a chance at the fight.

And, you encouraged.

You championed your causes, often alone, until; persuaded, others joined you, hoping to be warmed by your light.

You enveloped.

Your words evoked the tip of a felt fedora, or the raise of your eyebrow, or the click of your tongue; and grown women giggled, even as less talented men shrunk in your wake. And what a wake it is…

You are a force; a force of incredible power, giving to others without motive, and at great cost. You might have been a Priest…as,

You elevated.