The One Who Sings Through Me….

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The Music Director of a congregation where I’ve shared my music and led services is planning a Hymn Sing,
featuring the music of UU composers. She asked me to write something about my music, to share in the program:
“Singing is my spiritual practice, an intentional response to Life. Sometimes the response is silence, listening for what needs to be sung, to recreate harmony. Song-writing is an act of love, a collaboration with the mystery, always yearning to be known.
“All my songs arise in their own way from this conversation with the Deep Self. Sometimes I ask for something specific, like a song that will see me safely through (e.g., “Safe Passage” or the new “Metta,” Loving Kindness song). When I asked for a song for my own memorial service, I heard ‘I Know This Rose.’
“When my discursive analytical mind tries to shape a song, it sounds pedantic. My task is to listen, record what I hear and then translate it into time signatures, keys, tempo, piano arrangement.
“I never know when a song will come through. And my deepest intention is to keep open to the One that sings through me.”
Thanks for asking!

 

Pup Tent Cocoon

CONFESSIONS OF A RELUCTANT CATERPILLAR

Notes from a pup tent cocoon by Mary Grigolia

I’m not big on camping. I’m a city girl. I like the idea of sleeping under the stars. But it’s the mosquitoes and twigs and pebbles and finding my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night that put me off. Oh, and the raccoons and skunks and ticks and burrs.

So I was surprised when a camping image intruded on my meditation. Or, my resistance to meditation. I had arrived at a meditation group half an hour early. I set up the room. Got water. Still twenty minutes until anyone got there. What should I do? Meditate was the obvious answer. Instead, I sat in my usual place and started to think about all the things on my to do list.

Some inexplicably wise part of my mind/heart/soul said, “Whoa! Do you really want to think about your email now?” And for good measure, threw in an image of tent stakes.

I followed the directions (a first for me) and constructed a little tent.

The metaphor hit home: Each item on my to do list was another stake, for defning and securing my safe little tent. Once in place (i.e., given sufficient attention), I climb right in. Moment and meditation forgotten; I’d be accomplishing something!

Embarrassed, I pulled the stakes, packed up the tent, and meditated.889191_83129678

However, throughout the week, I could feel myself reaching for a stake, itching to retreat to my safe little tent.

A couple of days with this metaphor, I realized that the tent is really a cocoon. And I, a reluctant caterpillar.

Do I really intend to stay in this deceptively safe cocoon?

Are my creativity, courage and kindness really intended for me alone, in these narrow confines?

I know we all need to retreat and restore from time to time. And I know the time is coming to leave my cocoon. I trust that I have what I need to find or co-create the opening. And to trust myself to stretch my still-wet wings in the ever-evolving unknown and to fly.