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We tend to be suspicious of public figures who wrap themselves in divinity and claim that their will is God's will, but if no-one can articulate in an un-ignorable way in the public realm the creative energy of the love that we see in Christ, the human face of God, then we shall find ourselves inhabiting a maimed and diminished society.
from remarks made today by the Bishop of London at the memorial service for Diana, Princess of Wales
I have been receiving wonderful suggestions from some of you about places to sing in various locations around the country. I am starting to follow up on those, in the hope of doing some traveling in the coming year that will bring me closer to where you (yes, you!) are. Also looking at Québec, where my ancestors are from, and at London. I have no idea where I can sing there, but I have friends in Britain and memories to revisit. Was Solihull really one long street that ran from St. Martin's School for Girls school to the bungalow my family lived in and on to my friend Veronica's house behind which was the barn where Netta the pony was stabled? That is what I remember, and no, it doesn't seem possible, and I would love to go there to see.
Closer to home and the present, I am learning songs for some upcoming dates, writing, and reading reading reading. Summer's almost over, at least calendar summer, and even though I am not going to school, I feel a leaning toward more study. Perhaps this is the year for reading Dante... who knows?
It has been a wonderful few days so far this week, and yet, and yet... I could do so much better, I think. Write more, sing more, help more. Especially the last. I had something of a revelation recently when I was trying to avoid someone on my block. First, some background: the last office job I ever had, way back in the early 70s as the Manhattan Transfer was forming, involved filing documents. Not by title, alphabetically, but by content. So some thought was involved, thought about things I found uninteresting. I had an office, and a big desk, the kind that looks like a rectangular block. Sometimes I got so depressed by the job, and so tired from the attempted thinking (especially if the group had been rehearsing the night before), that I would crawl under that desk and curl up on the floor, and sleep, confident that no one walking in unexpectedly could see me. Hiding, you'd have to call it, if you were being honest.
I have not thought of this for years, but I remembered it a few days ago, as I found myself starting to duck into a store to avoid a conversation I felt I did not have time for. To avoid being seen by an elderly woman I know who walks very slowly, whose desire for company as she walks home might shave as much as 10 minutes off my so-very-important day, I was going to hide. For heaven's sake! I forgot who I am. I forgot what I care about. To save ten minutes. Madness!
I stubbed my spiritual toe, ow ow. Poor me. Another fall, another boo boo. Another starting anew. Being a person of faith is a full-time commitment. I don't want my final review to read "Great singer, but she hid under the desk."
