Music truly is the universal language. This past weekend was the annual Charles Village Festival. I finally got over there late Sunday afternoon for the final live band performance—Trinidad and Tobago Baltimore Steel Orchestra. They played lots of fun, typical steel drum music, including a tribute to the late great Harry Bellefonte. But it was the “Can this song be played on steel drums?” segment that was particularly delightful. Who knew that John Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads” or Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” could, indeed, be played on the steel drums?
I loved watching:
~ the Rita Moreno doppelganger elegantly swaying in her flowy, flowered skirt waving the Trinidad and Tobago flag
~ the child of the lesbian couple joining with the little girls of the young, hetero couple for a joyous, jumpy, giggly circle of kinetic expression
~ the woman who could NOT stop dancing even while wrestling with her stubborn chair trying to get it open
~ the mother, who really knew how to move her hips, dancing as partners with her little girl (and later being joined by her almost-adolescent son who clearly didn’t want to miss out on the fun)
~ the balding, paunchy, probably a little drunk “Bubba” who couldn’t help but loudly chime in at the right moment, “I will survive!”
The music crossed boundaries of all kinds—age, sex, gender identities, married status, ethnicities, favored musical genres—unifying everyone in attendance. It was a lovely, universal way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
Today is the 7th anniversary of the best day of my life.
Because I live in a culture largely based on the number 10 and its multiples, however, making a big deal of a 7th anniversary may seem odd. But 7 is my favorite number. I didn’t realize this initially, but I think it always has been. As a teenager, I thought 25 was my favorite number; it’s the number I always requested for my sports uniforms. I didn’t realize then that 25 is 7, numerologically, when you add the 2 and 5 together. I also happen to be an enneagram 7 (of course!) and spending as much time in the Bible as I do, it’s hard to miss 7’s significance there— namely, wholeness or completion. Lovely concepts and goals to strive for! So it’s a number that always gets my attention. But I digress …
Today is also Pentecost, the approximate 2000th anniversary of the day the promised gift of the Holy Spirit was given to the initial followers of Jesus after his death, resurrection, and ascension. Considering what happened to me 7 years ago, it feels particularly appropriate for this anniversary to fall on Pentecost.
I remember pausing in my journaling at the end of the day on May 28, 2016, before writing the words “best day of my life” to reflect on the veracity of those words. That was a mighty profound claim to make, after all. Could I truthfully stand by that statement? After some contemplation, I decided that I could.
In the weeks and months that followed, as I publicly shared that single-sentence revelation to my friends, many of them immediately, and annoyingly, jumped to the conclusion that I must have received a marriage proposal on that day. Really? THAT’S the thing that would make me declare May 28, 2016, better than any other day of my life?? Did they not know me any better than that??? [The fact that I did actually, kinda, sorta, in a way, get a proposal that day is completely beside the point! That event was only one of many occurrences that transpired, and it was, by far, the least important!]
So what DID happen on May 28, 2016? A series of perfect moments that added up to a wholly complete and perfect day.
I was in Split, Croatia, connecting with my Balkan roots. I’d purchased a ticket for a day-long tour of several islands which meant I got to spend the day on the beautiful Adriatic. As a Pisces, that’s like a day in heaven. The weather was absolutely flawless: sunny, light breeze, low humidity, around 75 degrees. Ah … perfection.
Nine passengers from various countries made up our spacious speedboat group. We started with a two-hour trip to the farthest island and then slowly made our way back to the coast, stopping at various islands and places of interest along the way. The two adorable millennial captains broadcast a playlist throughout the day that started with Barry White’s “You’re My First, My Last, My Everything.” Ah … that deep, rich, resonant voice is the perfect way to start any experience! It put a smile on my face that remained most of the day.
It was certainly there when several dolphins joined our journey, leaping playfully alongside our boat. It was there when we visited the Blue Cave, the Green Cave, and the quaint old fishing village on Vis. It was certainly there when I took a dip into the crystal-clear waters of the Adriatic and then dried off by sunbathing on the back of the boat as it motored through the sea. It was there during a simple and delicious lunch of pasta and fresh mussels, salad, and still-warm-from-the-oven bread. This perfectly yummy meal took place outside under the trees, with a dazzling view of the sparkling water, on a tiny island with only one building—the restaurant with accompanying sleeping quarters for the sole inhabitant … the somewhat gruff older man who grabbed me by the hand, kissed it, pulled me onto his lap and asked if I wanted to live there with him (which did deepen my smile even though I turned him down—now if I could have lived there without him … 😏). And it most definitely was there at our last stop, the island of Hvar, when I discovered that the old city contained the Radosevic Palace, a large manor house that perhaps a distant relative had built.
But it was during the final 45-minute boat ride back to Split that I couldn’t stop smiling. The temperature had dipped a bit, and we were traveling pretty quickly, so the wind was brisk. One by one, the others on the boat put on their windbreakers. Even the one brash German teen—travelling with four of his friends who had all just graduated from high school—perched at the helm and defiantly determined NOT to succumb to the cold (and thus prove his mettle to his buddies) finally caved and begrudgingly donned his jacket. I was the only one who didn’t, remaining in my short-sleeved T-shirt.
I certainly wasn’t trying to be tough or prove to anyone how superior I was; I simply wasn’t cold. In fact, I wanted more. The robust wind whipping through my hair and blasting against my skin invigorated me … wholly and completely. I was very conscious of how energized, exhilarated, ALIVE I felt. It’s like the wind was passing right through me and, as it did, every cell—every molecule—in my body had tiny lungs that were exponentially expanding with a high voltage boost of … LIFE! … that transported the essence of my very being to a plain of existence not of this world. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Later, sharing this story with a wise crone friend of mine, she immediately recognized it for what it was. “Oh, you were plugged into your life force.” That, my friends, is exactly what had happened. And if that’s not a version of complete and holistic perfection, I don’t know what is.
I think that some version of that is maybe what Pentecost is meant to be for us—an opportunity to plug in to our spiritual life force in a way that transports us to a more mystical, divine reality, even if just temporarily. Of course, we have the occasion to do that in a minor sense every single time we take a breath. The Hebrew word RUACH means wind, breath, and Spirit. I love the potential overlap of these words and what they represent. Naturally, we need to breathe to live. But what if we trained ourselves to be more conscious of those breaths not just giving us physical life, but also giving us a chance to holistically connect with Spirit as well? Often, our quest for wholeness begins with a desire or need for inspiration. Etymologically, “inspiration” is a recognition of this overlap. When we breathe in air/wind, we are in-Spiriting—or in-spiring—ourselves, pulling in Spirit (and, potentially, our spiritual life force) with each of those RUACH breaths. I LOVE that!
Of course, we can’t literally think of all this for every breath we take—we’d never be able to focus on anything else! But maybe we shouldn’t wait for a 7-year anniversary to be reminded of it, either. A balance needs to be struck where, not constant but regular recognition of, and conscious tuning into, RUACH creates small, “perfect,” complete moments of energy, invigoration, and LIFE that might just eventually add up to a holistically “perfect” experience … maybe even the best experience—or day—of our lives.
A Surprising Lesson from DinoI’m currently enjoying a three-month free trial with Amazon music. It’s fun to call out, “Alexa, play me some Catherine Russell” and then hear dozens and dozens of fantastic Catherine Russell songs without lifting a finger. My latest obsession is Dean Martin. Not sure where that urge came from. Admittedly, I’ve always loved him. Maybe because we’re both from NE Ohio, or because we’re both decedents of recent immigrants from the swarthier areas of Europe. Regardless, his voice is dreamy, and he was always just so darned charming! They say that if you smile when answering the phone, the person on the other end can tell you’re smiling and I feel like through much of Dino’s music, he has to be smiling that fetching grin, his warm brown eyes twinkling. You can just hear it.
At this point, I don’t even need to tell Alexa to play Dean Martin. Since I end each music session with, “Alexa, pause” she knows to continue with Dino when I tell her to resume. Unless the pause is relatively short, she always starts at the beginning of an apparently set playlist with “Sway.” It’s a great tune to cha cha to so I’ll often dance around my apartment while it plays. “Mambo Italiano” is another good opportunity to get my hips moving (the kind of “exercise” I actually enjoy doing!) Of course, there’s “That’s Amore” and “Volari” (a song that succeeded in getting my mom’s college pal to actually buy a Plymouth Volari in the 70s when Dean’s song was used in their commercials because she, like I, adored him) and “Everybody Loves Somebody, Sometime” … words that were actually etched onto his gravestone.
But the song that always challenges me is, “You’re Nobody ‘Till Somebody Loves You.” It’s a title, and message, that has always bothered me. What if you have no one in your life who loves you? You’re nobody?? I’m not even talking about a romantic or parental relationship. What if you don’t actually have any friends or a social network of people who care for you. Are you a nobody? I find that troublesome.
I know, I know … GOD loves everyone. I don’t think that’s what Dino and the song writer meant.
The lyrics get somewhat more palatable when they suggest that you can have all the best material possessions in the world but ultimately those won’t bring happiness, at least not the kind of happiness that comes from having someone who loves you.
But most interestingly is how the song’s message ends: “You’re nobody ‘til somebody loves you. So find yourself somebody to love.” Not, “Find someone to love YOU” but “You go find someone to love.” On the surface, that initially rankled me as well. Oh, so now the onus is on ME? It’s not enough that I’m already living a reality where I’m unloved but now I have to put in the work to find someone to love … and then exert the effort to actually LOVE them … and then what? Is that a guarantee that I’ll get love in return??
But the more I’ve lived with this, (I’ve heard this song a LOT over the last few weeks!), the more nuanced this message has become for me, especially as a person of faith. We can’t forcibly change others so that they’ll love us. The only people we can change is ourselves and maybe by being more loving, we become more lovable. It’s a version of Gandhi’s “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”
It also reminds me of my experience back in 2000 when I traipsed around 14 different countries in Europe over two months. About half of that time I traveled alone and those were the parts of the trip where I was in the “swarthier” areas of the continent. I had several concerned (some appalled) people ask me ahead of time if I was fearful. I said that I would be a smart traveler, aware of my surroundings, and not take any unnecessary risks, but that I was going to head into this adventure expecting the best from people. That’s what I did … and that’s what I got … in spades. It was amazing … and gratifying. Put out there what you want to receive in return. It’s not an ironclad guarantee but it’s a pretty solid life philosophy.
My niece, Sophia, was raised in a household where “I love you” was expressed a lot. Once, when she was a toddler, she was leaving Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The usual routine was for one of them—usually Sophia—to say, “I love you” and the other would respond, “I love you, too.” On this particular day, the grandparents were in the kitchen talking to each other about something (having nothing to do with love!). Sophia heard voices talking but clearly couldn’t distinguish what they were actually saying. As she walked out the door, she simply replied in the way she had been trained. “Love you, too!”
She assumed … she KNEW …that they loved her, so she was responding in kind. What a wonderful way to go through life.
I know that I’m somebody and that I have many people who love me. But in our caustic, divided world, maybe it’s time for me to go out and find somebody, perhaps several somebodies, to love.
Paul Is No Help From the Mouths of BabesBack when I was in seminary, I remember having to drop something off for my friend, Doug. When he met me at the door, he was laughing so hard he could barely stand up straight. “What’s so funny?” I inquired. Gasping for breath he opened the door and motioned me inside. “Come here, you’ve got to see this. I’ve been rewinding it and watching it for the last 20 minutes.”
This was the late 80s so “rewinding” is the correct term. He was a big CNN fan and would daily record a particular show to watch later, usually taping over the previous day’s program for each new day’s addition. What had tickled his fancy on this particular day was the story of a little girl, maybe three, not more than four, who had saved her epileptic mother after a seizure that had left her unconscious by calling 911. A local journalist was interviewing the child, praising her for her quick thinking and gushing about how lucky her mother was to have such a smart and brave little girl. The child looked directly into the camera and, quite matter-of-factly and with guileless purity, stated, “I’m pretty proud of myself.” It was adorable, and delightful, and very funny, necessitating several more rewindings and viewings before I left.
I think about that little girl, and particularly her declaration, a LOT. “I’m pretty proud of myself” has been a tremendously helpful tool over the years. And not just for me. I’ve shared this with numerous friends, one of whom is a therapist who has shared it with several of her clients, who love to be able to begin a session with “I’m pretty proud of myself” before launching into whatever breakthrough occurred for them that week. Try it. “I’m pretty proud of myself.” Doesn’t that feel good?
I channeled this child the last few days as I’ve tackled a leaking toilet. Let me preface this story by saying that I am NOT handy when it comes to plumbing issues. I grew up with a dad who could fix anything (and I do mean anything) so I seriously never understood how people like plumbers, electricians, or carpenters made a living. Didn’t everyone’s dad know how to fix everything? Once I was launched and living several states away, I quickly learned how people like plumbers, electricians, and carpenters made a living. And it was the desire not to have to pay for a plumber for this toilet issue that summoned within me the little CNN girl from 35years ago.
I took the lid off the tank and saw that one side of the flapper seemed to be loose, perhaps having worn away just enough of the plastic to make fixing it impractical. So, off to the hardware store to buy a new flapper. Cheap enough. Good. And, installing it was easy, so easy, in fact, that it didn’t even warrant an “I’m pretty proud of myself” … especially when, in short order, it became clear that the tank was still leaking into the bowl, triggering the bobber to open the water valve to bring the water level in the tank back up to its proper level every 10 minutes or so. Damn.
Removing the lid to the tank once again, I pressed down on the flapper and the added pressure seemed to do the trick. But I obviously couldn’t keep standing there throughout the day pushing down on the toilet flapper so I duct-taped some foreign coins, unspent from various travels, to the center of the flapper. That didn’t work either. Hm … this new flapper was rubber, not hard plastic like the previous one. Maybe the added weight only to the center of it was causing the edges to bow up just enough to unseal the lip and let water escape. So I took off the coins and super glued decorative stones (the kinds used for glass bowl centerpieces) around the rim, while still keeping a few in the middle just for good measure. Still didn’t work. Damn!
I made my way back to the hardware store to ask for some advice and was told I probably needed to replace the whole flusher valve mechanism. Great … how much was that going to cost, and would I even be able to do this myself? “It’s really easy,” I was reassured, a sentiment echoed a few minutes later by a friend who had done this on one of her toilets at some point.
I checked a YouTube video, and it really did seem easy. So I drained the tank, sopping up the inch or so of water on the bottom with a towel, and carefully unscrewed everything and removed the tank. The rubber gasket connecting the tank to the stool had definitely seen better days. Ah … that’s probably the root of the problem. I should have this fixed in a jiff.
Well, it wasn’t fixed in a jiff! The new flusher valve I’d bought didn’t have a rubber gasket so I had to go back to the hardware store. I decided to take the tank with me just so they could see the size of everything I was working with. (This was no small feat considering I live on the third floor of a walk-up and my parking space is all the way around the connected rowhouse stretch of five buildings in the back and I drive a compact VW Beetle!) Turns out they hadn’t sold me the right sized flusher valve, so I swapped that out for one that was the proper size, one that also came with a rubber gasket, and returned home.
This time the rubber gasket didn’t seem to fit – it was too big, not resting flush (no pun intended) with the top of the porcelain stool. DAMMIT! So, back to the hardware store, armed with measurements of the hole. They said that the gasket I had was the only one they had that would work for me. I just needed to apply enough pressure to get it in there, perhaps rubbing a little dish soap around the outside to lubricate it.
I did all that … but was also very aware that the YouTube guy, the written instructions, and the hardware men had all firmly stated NOT to tighten things too much for fear of cracking the tank. I also know myself to be a bit of a bull in a China shop, so I was quite nervous about pushing the tank down too hard in order to force that gasket into the hole. I checked and double checked and concluded that this was simply a different style, and it wasn’t supposed to completely fit inside. This meant, however, that the tank would “float” a tad over the stool. Could that be right??
Only one way to find out. So I screwed in the two big screws, making sure they were snug without overdoing it, connected the water pipe to the clip, and attached the flapper chain to the handle. And guess what? It worked! Am I pretty proud of myself? I’m pretty DAMNED proud of myself!